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WE ALL FALL DOWN: The True Story of the 9/11 Survivor

WE ALL FALL DOWN

The True Story of the 9/11 Surfer

~ ♦ ~

by Pasquale & Louise Buzzelli

with Joseph M. Bittick

Edited by Autumn J. Conley

Copyright© 2012 by Pasquale and Louise Buzzelli

Cover Design: Hope Buzzelli

Authors: Pasquale & Louise Buzzelli with Joseph M. Bittick

Editor: Autumn J. Conley, autiej@gmail.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the publisher(s) of this book.

“Ring around a rosie,

a pocketful of posies…

Ashes, ashes…

We all fall down!”

IN MEMORIAM OF THE 2,977 WHO WERE LOST

“Always remember…never forget.”

To the Fourteen Who Were With Pasquale that Day…

Jean A. Andrucki, William F. Fallon, Stephen J. Fiorelli, Barry H. Glick, Rosa Gonzalez,

Joseph F. Grillo, Patrick A. Hoey, Deborah H. Kaplan, Edward T. Keane, Franco Lalama,

Susan Miszkowicz, Kalyan K. Sarkar, Lisa J. Trerotola, and Simon V. Weiser

To the 343 FDNY Firefighters…

To the 37 Port Authority of NY & NJ police officers…

To the 23 NYPD police officers…

To the 2 EMS paramedics…

And to All Who Lost Their Loved Ones on September 11, 2001.

A very special thank you to Joey Bittick…

for without you, who would tell our story?

~ Louise Buzzelli

FOREWORD

I do not know why, but while I managed to somehow write over 50,000 words as a contribution to this amazing story, when it comes to writing down words of my own in a letter, this foreword, I seem to struggle and draw a blank.

Nevertheless, I can say I know that the story of Louise and Pasquale Buzzelli is the most important story I will ever help to tell. Because of that, I cannot think of any of my own words that are important enough to put in their book. I cannot pretend that telling this story was any great challenge; the great story was already there, spawned on that fateful day in 2001, and I only had to copy it onto paper. For some reason that I still do not understand, they chose me to put their story into the printed words you will read in the pages that follow.

When my wife, a book editor who constantly encourages me to write, was contacted by a British publisher and told me that a man who’d actually lived through the Twin Tower attacks was in search of a writer to help him tell his story, I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t sure it was something I could write, and even if I could, I wasn’t sure I’d be given the chance. However, I gave it a shot because writing is a passion of mine, and writing important stories that will touch lives is the root of that passion. I will never forget the moment when Louise Buzzelli, whom I couldn’t even believe I was actually talking to, told me the Buzzellis wanted me to tell her and Pasquale’s story of how that day, 9/11, changed their lives forever. While the story itself is quite astounding in so many ways and has, therefore, been a stirring writing assignment in its own right, what I have enjoyed immeasurably more has been the opportunity to get to know Louise and Pasquale Buzzelli and, through them, just a little about their friends and family and the other heroes and fallen of that day. Through our conversations, their family videos, their letters, cards, and writings, I have gotten to know this wonderful family in some small way, and that has been a privilege indeed.

We all strive to one day be extraordinary; to Pasquale and Louise, extraordinary comes naturally. Regardless of their story, Louise and Pasquale are extraordinary. They treat everyone they come across with kindness and respect, even when kindness and respect is not always earned. They chose me, basically a ninth-grade dropout with nothing but a dream of telling a story that people will want to read, and they accepted me into their life and trusted me enough to, as Louise puts it, “bring out the raw emotion [they] needed to help [them] tell [their] story.” In doing this, in welcoming into their lives and their remembrances of one of the most unforgettable day in American history, the Buzzellis have given me something I never thought I would find: a chance to be fulfilled and a chance to make my life worth something. When Pasquale was pulled out of that Tower that day, his life was not the only one that was saved and changed, for now, more than a decade later, his story has also altered my life and my perspective about my passion, my path, and the things that are most important in life.

So, thank you, Louise and Pasquale. No matter how many times I say that, it will never be enough.

~ Joseph Bittick,

Co-Author of We All Fall Down

PROLOGUE

“Every leader and every regime and every movement and every organization that steps across the line to terrorism must be banished from the discourse of civilized human life.”

~ Alan Keys (April 21, 2002)

A tall, handsome, dark-haired man with intense blue eyes stood in the middle of One Police Plaza in New York, New York, waiting patiently in line. He was dressed in khakis and a white button-up shirt. In his right hand, the man held a manila envelope. When he was called to approach the counter, he smiled at the man behind the desk and introduced himself. “Hello. My name is Pasquale Buzzelli, B-U-Z-Z-E-L-L-I,” he said. “My wife got this letter in the mail saying some item belonging to me has been found at ground zero, and I am here to pick it up.”

“Can I see the letter?” the officer asked, not bothering to look up at Pasquale.

“Yeah, sure. Here you go,” Pasquale said, handing it to him. “I don’t know why they sent it to my wife.”

While the man behind the counter examined the papers, Pasquale examined his surroundings. After all he had been through, he could not help but make himself keenly aware of exits in any building he set foot in. He made a mental note of every neon exit sign that he could see from where he was standing, and the presence of several armed officers helped put him at ease.

“Well, sir, this is addressed to a Louise Buzzelli. I’m afraid I can’t release the item to anyone but her.”

“Oh, I understand it is addressed to my wife instead of me, but I think that’s because a mistake was made. I think someone assumed I did not make it out of the Towers that day, so—”

“Sir, this says the property found at Ground Zero is a…briefcase.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s my briefcase. I had it with me that day, but I lost it when the building came down, and—”

“So you forgot it in the Tower when you were evacuated? Okay. Well, in that case—”

“Well actually, no. I had it over my shoulder when the Tower collapsed, and it was ripped away from me during the fall. I can’t even believe you guys found…” Pasquale’s voice trailed off when he noticed that the officer had finally looked up at him and was now arching a questioning brow.

“Wait…what? You’re telling me you were still in the Twin Towers when they came down? What floor were you on?”

“I know it sounds hard to believe. I still can’t believe it myself.” The uncomfortable feeling he had grown so accustomed to whenever someone asked him that question began to creep up on him. “I was on the twenty-second floor,” Pasquale answered.

“Are you saying you made it out of that hell alive, after everyone else was evacuated? I heard rumors about a guy who was seen surfing down the wreckage—the ‘9/11 surfer’ they’re calling him—but I didn’t think that was real or if any others even made it out of there after the Towers fell.

“I know. It’s crazy, right?” Pasquale said, grinning nervously. “Anyway, I think that’s why the letter’s addressed to my wife, to Louise, instead of me. I’m sure they just assumed I didn’t get out. I was in the building when it came down, so when they found the briefcase, they probably thought it best to notify her, presuming she was my widow.”

The man just stared at him in disbelief, rendered speechless for a moment and not sure how to respond.

“Look, I have my ID right here, and I even brought a newspaper article with me to prove who I am. You can see that I am who I say I am. Can you just give me my briefcase?”

“I am sorry. Wow,” the officer said, shaking his head and handing Pasquale’s ID and letter back to him. “Man, I believe you, but I still can’t give you the item. Sorry. It’s protocol, so—”

Pasquale shook his head and smiled as he took his things back from the officer. His good mood had completely vanished, courtesy of “protocol,” and he started to feel angry. Damn it! It’s MY briefcase. Why can’t they just give it to me? I am so sick of dealing with this crap. Every freaking day it’s something else. And what the hell was he talking about, the “9/11 surfer”? Frustrated as he was, Pasquale kept his composure. Swallowing the anger he was feeling (something he’d learned to do), he smiled once more and wished the officer a good day.

As he walked to his car to drive home, he tried not to dwell on what had just happened, but he could not get that term, that ridiculous catch phrase out of his head. The “9/11 surfer”? It sounds like some kind of freaking comic book hero or something. I wonder if the guy was wearing tights and a cape.

By the time he pulled into the driveway of his two-story, white, colonial-style home, his curiosity was piqued. He walked inside and headed straight for the computer. He typed in “9/11 surfer,” and within moments, there it was.

With each word he read and every fuzzy photograph he saw, his disbelief grew. He knew countless amazing stories had come out of the rubble of that fateful day, but he’d not yet heard of the urban legend of the man surfing down the rubble. When he finished reading the story, he shook his head and then read it one more time, just to make sure it said what he thought it said. When he was certain he had not misread the details, he knew he had to tell his wife. “Louise!” he called over his shoulder, laughing in disbelief and shaking his head. “Louise, you’ve gotta take a look at this!”

“One minute!” a voice called from the other room. “I’m feeding the baby.” After a moment, a petite blonde woman entered the room, holding a satisfied and cooing baby girl in her arms. “What is it, Pasquale?”

“Have you seen this?” Pasquale said, pointing at the monitor.

“What?” she asked, squinting to see what he was talking about.

“I was at the Manhattan Property Clerk’s office, trying to get the item they found. Turns out it’s my briefcase, but they wouldn’t give it to me.”

“They wouldn’t give it to you?”

“No. They guy said he can only give it to you, since the letter is officially addressed to you. But anyway, when I tried to explain to him what happened and why I was there instead of you, he made some weird remark about a ‘9/11 surfer’.”

“What? What the heck is a ‘9/11 surfer’?”

“I didn’t know either, but he said he’d heard all these stories about a guy who was thought to have surfed the building down during the collapse,” he said, pointing to the screen.

Louise leaned forward and started reading. “A widely rumored story is that of the ‘9/11 surfer’. Witnesses purport that they saw a man ‘surfing’ down to safety from atop the rubble of the collapsing building. Onlookers report that the man was very high up when the building came down, but he managed to ride the debris in the swirling air currents resulting from the collapse of the massive structure, something like a surfer atop an ocean wave, landing on the ground with nothing but some bruises and a broken bone.” After she read the report, Louise looked from the screen to Pasquale, her green eyes as wide as saucers. She skimmed the article one more time before exclaiming, “Pasquale! Oh my God! That ‘surfer’….he’s…Pasquale, that article is about YOU!”

A LETTER FROM “ THE 9/11 SURFER ”

That day, 9/11, forever changed my life and the life of my family. It was difficult to process the events of that day. It seemed like a nightmare for so long, one that I just could not wake up from. I thought I could make it go away and just move on with my life. After all, this was something I had prided myself in doing my whole life—dealing with an issue, doing my best to resolve the situation, accepting the outcome, and finally moving on. But life is not that simple. I immediately felt no control over my life and the lives of my family. How could I move on when I’d lost close “work” family, people I’d respected and looked up to? I couldn't get past feeling guilty feeling sad every day. Whenever I managed to break through the thick cloud of guilt and felt happy as a father, I immediately thought of my daughter's life without me, and then all of those children who would have to go through that because their fathers didn’t walk out of those Towers. Unfortunately, we cannot change what happened for them.

Everyone was happy around me, happy to have me alive, but that same celebration pushed me deeper into rage and depression from the guilt I felt. Eventually, over time and by talking through what I was experiencing, I came to a realization and a reason for sharing my journey. I realized that by not continuing on my path as a father, a husband, and a son, I would be disrespecting the memory of all those friends I’d lost. I learned that I couldn’t feel guilty about enjoying those precious moments we all seek as a father; I had to embrace it.

Our loved ones who have passed on, for whatever reasons, do not want us to stop our lives because they have moved on. They want the exact opposite. When we fall down, they would want us to get back up and live again. Of course, I can only speak from how I would want my children and other loved ones to be if something happens to me, but I would want them to make the most of everyday, to experience every joy that life has to offer, to remember me, but not mourn me if it means missing out on sharing their love of life with others.

Life, of course, is a balance of work and play, and my good friend Pat once told me that it’s important to do both as hard as you can. It is definitely our experiences, good or bad, that make us who we are in life, and it is how we choose to use those experiences and digest them and move on that is within our control. So, to those who have been forever scarred by 9/11, I wish you a peace—a deep peace that comes from acceptance and the belief that our loved ones would want the best for us, no matter where they are and how early they were taken away from us. I wish love—the love that comes from opening up your heart and letting others in. And I wish joy—the true joy that can only come from sharing those moments with the people we love.

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

CHAPTER ONE

Some Days Shouldn’t Be Sunny…

“September 11, 2001, a day that changed all our lives…It still feels as if it were yesterday. Not one day has gone by that I have not thought about that day.”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

Catastrophic days aren’t supposed to be sunny. There shouldn’t be blue skies and a warm, late summer wind barely ruffling the trees. The day when the world comes to an end requires roiling clouds, illuminated by huge shafts of jagged lightning and thunderous rolls of sound. These should be Rembrandt days, when the heavens explode and the golden glow of eternity spreads across the land. Every disaster must be foretold, preceded by dire warnings and solemn reports and men in coarse cloaks, shaking their fists upward as stunned followers surround them, kneeling, praying, waiting for the end to come…

…or so Pasquale Buzzelli had always thought.

It was a usual weekday morning routine in his River Vale, New Jersey home: showering, shaving, dressing, and getting ready for work. He was thinking of nothing more than plans to work on their colonial house over the next weekend: specifically, the painting yet to be done in their expected baby’s nursery.

If Pasquale had studied the Old Testament, he might have been prepared for what was to come. He was a good Catholic man of sound values, leading the life he’d earned by his hard work. He did harbor some fear of God, for his Italian immigrant parents, Antonia and Ugo Buzzelli, had taught him well, but it wasn’t an immediate fear—until years later. He was only thirty-two, he had a great job with the Port Authority, and his wife Louise was soon to deliver their longed-for first child.

Pasquale still couldn’t quite comprehend what being a father would mean, what changes would lay ahead. He thought maybe there were things he should be worried about, but he was sure there’d be plenty of time for that later, after the baby came.

What did Pasquale have to fear on a warm September day in the morning stillness of his house all around him?

He sat in the kitchen with a coffee cup in his hands, sunlight streaming through the windows, while Louise was upstairs in their large bedroom, still asleep. The pregnancy had been hard on her. Most nights she was awake, pacing and unable to rest. He wanted to be with her during those long nights, but he had to work and often fell asleep as she stood staring out what was soon to be the baby’s window, looking at the streetlights along the road in front of their home, reading, or writing in her pregnancy journal—when she could sit long enough to relax.

It wasn’t an easy time for either of the Buzzellis, but it was a time filled with excitement and expectation. The baby’s room was almost done. When they finished their work, an artist Louise had found would come in and paint angels on the walls and ceiling—angels, angels everywhere!

He thought about the jobs that awaited him: the yard work, closing the pool for winter, and other various tasks from the honey-do list. The evenings were growing cooler, though the days remained warm.

A big man, tall and muscular with dark brown hair and blue eyes, Pasquale sometimes felt clumsy around Louise. She was big herself with their child, but underneath the baby weight, she was a delicate, small-framed lady with a lovely, endearing face and green eyes that could break his heart. Her life hadn’t been easy. She’d made so many sacrifices already: her mother to cancer and her father to fire. Pasquale found that all he wanted was to make Louise safe, to make sure she was loved, and to take care of his family the way a man should.

He wished he didn’t have to go to work that day, and he felt a tiredness he wasn’t used to feeling. If I could just stay home with Louise, we could paint the nursery today, he thought. But there were jobs waiting to be done in the city, and people at work depended on him to show up.

He sighed and rinsed his coffee cup, set it carefully in the dish drainer, then wiped his hands on a dish towel Louise had hung beside the sink. He folded the towel. The material felt both soft and rough as he patted the towel gently into place, almost as if he’d touched Louise.

He was late. All that procrastinating! He would leave his car at the depot in Westwood and take two trains into the city, then take a walk through the buildings and ride two elevators—a long, tedious commute to his job in the Twin Towers.

Pasquale stood for just a moment more at the window. The blue pool in the yard reflected a passing white cloud. The grass, the stones he’d placed with his own hands—all of it seemed nothing more than preparation for what was about to happen in their lives.

They had tried for so long to get pregnant, always hoping against hope, only to result in tears running down the cheeks of Louise’s small face. She never had to say a word. He was helpless to lessen her pain. All he could do was put his arms around her, hold her close, and pray that he could protect her next time. Protection was what he most wanted to give, but it wasn’t always easy to provide.

Pasquale climbed the stairs, up to where Louise was asleep in the wide bed. He bent over her sleeping form and kissed her lightly, so as not to disturb her from her much-needed rest. Brittany, their soft-coated wheaten terrier, had climbed up to take Pasquale’s place beside Louise and opened one brown eye to see if Pasquale intended to climb back in and displace her.

Louise lay on her side, a sheet only partially covering her swollen body, with their comforter pushed off to the floor. Pasquale kissed Louise’s slightly damp cheek one last time. She smelled of baby powder and soap. Maybe tonight we’ll go out alone, he thought. It’s too bad she can’t come into the city. We could have dinner at Windows on the World, up on the top, right next to my building, the way we did when I proposed. But he knew she wasn’t up to such a long trip alone.

She stirred, mumbled, “I love you,” and went back to sleep, reaching one hand across the bed to touch him.

He watched her sleep and thought of the child they would have. The baby already had a name: Hope. Just the sound of it made him smile, for it was almost as if it were the watchword of their life together. He looked down at Louise and decided he’d call after he got to the office. They’d share a laugh about how hard it was for him to leave that morning.

Pasquale finally pulled himself away. He was already late. The train he should have caught would be leaving the station about the time he got there, and the next one would get him into New York at the last minute. Maybe I won’t be late, he thought, but I sure am cutting things awfully close. It was so difficult to make his legs move, to force his body to rush off from home. Still, it was real life, and he had to deal with it.

Pasquale hurried down the stairs and out the door. He slung his briefcase over his back by its long strap as he made his way to the driveway and his car.

River Vale was a town of pretty homes and tall trees and grass, and it was particularly lovely that fine morning. At the train station in Westwood, he parked his car. As expected, he’d missed the express train into Manhattan.

There were a few other men on the platform with him. They nodded. “Some damn game,” one said and shook his head.

Pasquale agreed. He’d stayed up late watching the Giants play the Broncos—a heartbreaking pigskin defeat for New York.

The man folded his morning paper into the traditional commuter’s fold and began to read.

The next train got Pasquale into Hoboken at 8:22 a.m. From there, it was less than twenty minutes by the Port Authority Trans-Hudson (PATH) train to the World Trade Center. He arrived there at 8:40, joining the masses of people heading to work. Much to his surprise, he would be on time, as long as he hurried a little. All that hesitation at home hadn’t put him off as much as he’d thought.

He entered through the northeast corner of the North Tower, One World Trade Center, and took the elevator up to the forty-fourth floor.

At the second elevator, which would take him to his office on the sixty-fourth floor, he met Bill, a man he ran into often, waiting for the same elevator. “Good morning,” Pasquale said and nodded to the middle-aged man, offering a usual New Yorker greeting—friendly, but not requiring too much conversation.

Bill returned the greeting and gave a nod.

When the elevator arrived, Pasquale got in behind him, and they turned to face the doors, ready to ride up on a day like any other. But then the elevator gave a violent shake…and began to drop. Everything was chaos for a moment before the elevator caught itself and was stable once more.

“What the hell?” Bill said, looking at Pasquale as if hoping that he would have the answer.

“I don’t know. Must have been some kind of mechanical failure,” Pasquale replied with a shrug. However, when the doors opened, he knew it had to be something else.

The elevators in the building were set to drop down to the lowest floor in the event of an emergency. In this case, the doors opened on the forty-fourth floor, which was in a state of complete mayhem.

Pasquale’s jaw dropped at the sight before him. He could see nothing but dark, heavy smoke. The lobby was filled with it.

“What the hell is going on?” he heard someone screaming in terror.

Maybe we should just get back in the elevator and get the hell off of this floor. We can’t even see to get off the elevator. What if a bomb went off or there was an explosion?

The elevator was lit and working properly, and though neither spoke a word, Bill and Pasquale decided to get back on it and go on to the sixty-fourth floor, where the command center and Pasquale’s office were located. Maybe we can get some answers about what the hell is going on up there…

When they got to the sixty-fourth floor, Pasquale saw Pat Hoey, Executive Manager of Tunnels, Bridges, and Terminals, in his office talking with Steve Fiorelli, a structural engineer. Lisa Trerotola, Franco Lalama, and others were standing silent outside of the office. “Do you know what happened, Pat?” Pasquale asked.

“I don’t know, but I was thrown out of my chair!”

“Wow!” Pasquale said, stunned. “I am going to go call Louise. She might know what is going on.” Plus, I don’t want her turning on the TV or getting a call from someone asking her if she knows something without hearing from me first. She hasn’t been sleeping, and this pregnancy has been so rough on her. I don’t want her being nervous on my account. Or worse, I don’t want it to cause harm to her or the baby…

CHAPTER TWO

There Was No Time…

“I had this fairytale picture of my family in my head. The only thing was, I never knew if it really existed.

You [Pasquale] have made my fairytale into reality…but only so much more. You are more than I ever imagined, and I only wish that God gives us eternity to share a life together. Now we will have Hope in our lives. I love you from within my soul.”

~Louise Buzzelli

(in a letter to Pasquale, August 17, 2001)

The sound in Louise’s head wasn’t real. A ringing phone? Not this early. She’d been up half the night after so many nights of the same—awake and reading, pacing the floor, trying not to disturb Pasquale, who had to get up early. Being seven and a half months pregnant and constantly uncomfortable meant any extra hours of sleep she could grab were precious. Maybe if I ignore it, she thought, whoever is on the other end will give up.

But the old-fashioned black bedroom phone rang on.

It can’t be Pasquale calling…not yet. He’d kissed her goodbye on his way out to work. It would have been nice, she thought as she yawned, if he’d have taken the day off, but she knew he couldn’t. His job as a project manager with the Port Authority was too important to him.

She put a hand down to touch Brittany, who loved to crawl into bed with her and take Pasquale’s warm spot after he got up in the morning. The terrier stretched, opened one eye, pawed the air, and went back to sleep.

The phone was insistent. It wouldn’t stop ringing just because she’d desperately willed it to.

Louise reached across the bed, almost knocking the phone from the nightstand. It was so hard to move quickly with her big belly getting in the way. “Hello?” She tried to sound awake and alert, but she knew she only sounded tired. Maybe, she hoped, the conversation will be short so I can go back to sleep. I’m still so tired.

“Louise, it’s me.”

Pasquale? Oh, Pasquale—but not this early. Didn’t he just get to work?

“Louise, please don’t be alarmed. Something’s happened to my building…”

Oh no! Louise shifted her body, then sat upright at the side of the bed. Not again. He’d been at the Twin Towers in 1993 when it was bombed. Not again! People from everywhere in the world worked there together, shared the space, got along. Why? She heard herself make a sound. She tried for a word, anything to choke out. She needed to reassure Pasquale, who was trying to reassure her. But wait. At least he’s talking. He’s on the phone. He’s all right. At least she could breathe.

“Can you turn on the television and tell me if you see anything?” he asked calmly.

For a few seconds, Louise stood still, concentrating on breathing, one hand going to her abdomen. She needed to be calm for Hope. She walked over to the bedroom TV. When she turned it on, there was no channel-flipping required to search for what Pasquale was looking for. There it was: the dual buildings outlined against an immaculate blue sky, with black smoke pouring almost sideways from one of the Towers, the Tower with the antenna on top, the Tower where Pasquale worked. She ran back to the phone. “Pasquale, your building is on fire! What are you doing? GET OUT OF THERE!” she demanded, unable to control herself.

A newscaster’s voice came through the fog of fear she felt: “A plane has hit the World Trade Center…” was all she heard.

“They’re saying a plane hit your building! I-I don’t—”

“Okay. I’m okay. My floor is fine. We’re all okay. Can you tell me where it hit? Low? Middle? High?”

“Looks pretty high, up close to the top.”

“I’m on the sixty-fourth floor. We’re all right.” He must have turned away from the phone, because she heard him calling to people behind him, “My wife says a plane hit our building!” There was disbelief in his voice, a kind of confused bemusement.

Louise waited, breathing hard, and shock beginning to sweep over her. Calm…calm—for Pasquale, for Hope. He’s on the phone. He’s all right. Now he’ll get out of there and call me from the street…

“Don’t worry, Louise. We’re leaving as soon as we get the word.”

“Don’t stay on the phone with me. Please, Pasquale, get out! GET OUT OF THAT BUILDING!” She watched what he couldn’t see: the blue sky streaked with awful black smoke. People had already died. There’s no time! Oh please…

Pasquale was gone; his wife was relieved, yet afraid. Maybe he needs my help. Maybe there’s someone I can call…

A crucifix hung on the far wall. Dear Aunt Anna, a Eucharistic minister, had given it to them as a wedding shower present. Drawn to its simplicity, Louise took down the cross, studied it, and then clutched it close to her chest. If ever she’d needed God, needed her religion, this was the time. Maybe, she thought, Aunt Anna has an in with Him. Maybe Aunt Anna and her God will save my Pasquale. Maybe if I just hold on to this cross and pray as hard as I can…

CHAPTER THREE

A Hole in the Heart of New York

“Every leader and every regime and every movement and every organization that steps across the line to terrorism must be banished from the discourse of civilized human life.”

~ Alan Keyes

(April 21, 2002)

Pasquale held tightly to the phone. A plane? Maybe it was a small, single-engine plane. The pilot must have been disoriented—poor guy. They’ll let us out of here soon.

Around him, people stood in groups, talking. The faces he saw were stamped with the questions that were rolling around his own mind, the feelings he felt: Should we get out of here? Should we wait? There were no instructions covering what they should do in the event of another attack. No one knew what to do, so they all stood looking—one to the other.

“…pretty high, up close to the top,” Louise had said. Above us then. He shook his head. The one thing Pasquale Buzzelli couldn’t do was nothing; he couldn’t just stand still and wait...

“A plane?” someone asked when he joined his fellow workers, milling around outside the gray cubicles.

“That was what my wife said. I guess we wait—”

“But smoke’s getting in here.” One of the men pointed toward where small gray-black wisps were leaking in under the doors leading to the core of the building, to the elevators and stairwell.

“Come on!” a man yelled and took off his coat.

Pasquale followed, hurrying to the closest break room that had a sink, and they began wetting down their coats, towels, and any fabric thing they could find. Pasquale pushed some sopping towels into the opening at the bottom of the door. “We need masking tape!” he called to no one, then ran back to his office for the tape he knew was in his left-hand drawer.

“Pasquale!” Pat Hoey stood in the doorway, leaning toward him. “Something has to be open on the other side of the floor. Smoke’s getting in.”

Pasquale nodded and ran after him. They walked around the entire floor, checking each entrance door one by one. On the opposite side of the building, the south entrance, a door stood ajar; smoke filling the opening and beyond. They made an excellent team: Pat covered his mouth and nose and pushed the door shut, and Pasquale taped it closed. They looked behind them. The gray cubicles and the aisles between them had slightly filled with smoke now, and Pasquale could feel the ashy smog going down into his lungs with every breath. Luckily it was contained on the south side and did not find its way to the northwest corner of the building where the rest of the group had gathered.

Pasquale had to find a way to look out. He felt trapped, sixty-four floors above ground, as if they were suspended in space, far away from all that was happening beneath them. He needed to see, so he hurried to the southeast corner and looked out the wall of narrow windows. From there, he could see New York City.

But from those windows, Pasquale did not see what he wanted to see—not at all the city he knew. Across from where he stood, small fires burned on rooftops. Fiery debris fell from the top of his building: hot ash, pieces of the building, and paper—so much paper. It’s…there’s an inferno out there. Maybe it’s better to stay where we are. Maybe this is the safest place…or maybe not.

All he could think to do was call Louise again. Surely she’s watching the news. This must be on every channel. She’ll know what’s happening.

He hurried back to his own office and found the phone ringing. “Louise?” He was sure it’d be Louise, worried, and he knew it was his job to protect her still, to assure her of his safety. Any minute now the word will come for all of us to leave. I’ll tell her that.

But it was not Louise. It was Maria, the worried wife of Pasquale’s friend, Joe Calautti. “Pasquale,” she said, “I can’t get a hold of Joe. Did you have coffee with him this morning? I know you two usually—”

“I haven’t seen him, Maria. I was late getting here, and—”

“Oh my God! Where is he? Did you know another plane hit? It flew right into Building Two. Two planes, Pasquale! I don’t understand…”

At that moment, the fire alarm went off, low at first, then escalating into hysteria.

Pasquale assured Maria that Joe would be in touch and got off the phone. Outside his office, a strobe light at the siren box flashed on and off.

Terrorists! He knew it immediately. Two planes just don’t stray off course on the same day. Two planes don’t hit two separate Towers.

When he got off the phone, Pasquale looked for Pat and found him with Steve Fiorelli. They already knew about the second plane.

“It’s a terrorist attack.”

He could feel the electricity around them, that sense of awe and fear and disbelief. Some of his co-workers ran for the phones. Some huddled, talking amongst themselves, trying to be heard above the terrible sirens.

Pasquale, Steve, and Pat, their steady-handed boss, awaited the evacuation order that would surely come soon; it had to. Everyone was nervous, and no one knew what was happening or what could happen.

“Let’s go see if we can get the TV in the conference room to work,” Pat offered as a suggestion.

In the small room, filled mostly with a large table and chairs, Pat and Steve fiddled with the controls on the TV: nothing but static.

Pasquale stood at the window, watching fires burning on buildings all around them. Terrorists. How could this be happening…again?

“Look!” Pat called over to him. “Here it is!”

In very faint outline, as they all leaned in close to the TV. They could make out an airplane flying slowly toward the second Tower, just across from them: Two World Trade Center, struck; an explosion; flames shooting out; and a huge hole in the building.

To Pasquale, none of it seemed real. It could have been any disaster movie. It could have been anywhere else in the world. He felt completely disconnected from the smoke filling the rooms, from his friends, from what was happening.

There were gasps behind them as the men stood watching television. Lisa Trerotola, Rosa Gonzalez, Genelle Guzman, and Deborah Kaplan had seen the faint outline of the flying plane, followed by the cruel burst of destruction. Others came in, demanding to know what they should do. There was despair in their usually calm eyes, smudges on their smoke-stained cheeks, tears streaking their faces.

Has anyone else heard anything? Pasquale wondered.

Pat Hoey and Jean Andrucki got on their cell phones to call the Port Authority offices. Someone had to make a decision. They had to know what was happening and what they should do about it.

Over panicked yelling in the offices, the fire alarm screeched on. The strobe lights pulsed. People stood around nervously, waiting for word that it was safe for them to leave, but that word never came. As if the world outside their smoke-filled offices had ceased to exist or forgotten that they still did, no one said anything to them.

Pasquale called Louise again. He knew by now that she’d seen that second plane slam into the other building. He had to be careful of what he said to her. He would reassure her that he was fine. He wiped at his face and stood still for a minute, collecting himself, willing air down into his lungs. He dialed and held tightly to the phone.

“Pasquale?” Louise demanded. “There were two planes. Building Two’s been hit. It’s terrible. Are you out of there yet?”

“We’re waiting to hear if it’s safe to leave,” he told her. “I’ll be fine. We’re all here together, just…waiting.”

“Waiting for what? GET OUT, Pasquale!”

“We will as soon as we can. Our side of the floor has lights. Maybe we’re better off staying right here.”

“You can’t see what’s happened to your building and the other one. I can see it, Pasquale. It’s just…it’s horrible! When will you get out of there?”

“As soon as they give us the go-ahead.”

“Call me then. Call me as soon as you’re down to the street. I need to know!”

He wasn’t sure what to do after he hung up.

Pat was on the phone with his boss, Ken Philmus. He called over to Steve, “Ken’s on his way down from Boston.”

Next, Pat was in touch with John Lesko, a co-worker who’d already started down the stairwell. John responded from his alphanumeric beeper. “He says it’s slow going toward the bottom floors!” Pat yelled over at Pasquale. “There’re a lot of burn victims going down the stairs.” He hesitated, listened, and then called out to everyone standing around him. “He says they’re opening a lane so people with burns can get down faster, and they’re trying to keep a lane open for the firemen. They’re on their way up.”

Good news. No…GREAT news! The firemen will take care of it. Soon the fire—wherever it is—will be out. This nightmare will be over. I’ll be home by evening.

“We’re probably going to have to go down,” Pat called to everyone who could hear him. “We’ll need something to cover our mouths and noses.”

Jean Andrucki and some of the others cut up anything they could find to wet for that very purpose as they made their exodus out of the building.

Pasquale, Pat, and Steve, along with some of the others, stood together. No one was sure what they should be doing.

“We’ll stay as long as possible,” Steve said in his usual decisive manner. “No sense clogging the stairs so the firemen can’t get to the upper floors. John said it’s pretty tight down there,” Steve went on. He coughed, putting one hand to his throat. “Maybe it’s better though. At least we’d be on our way out, and—”

He stopped speaking as a shudder ran through the building. The walls began to vibrate, then the floor and even the air shook. There was one long shudder, followed by a longer, even more terrible quiet.

CHAPTER FOUR

The One with the Antenna on Top

“I am home right now. I can see the smoke from my rooftop. Louise, don’t worry.

Pasquale’s going to be all right. He is going to be okay.”

~ Ralph Molfetta

Louise put the phone down and leaned against it, trying to breathe. There seemed to be so little air in the room around her. Her hands went to her mouth. The bedroom walls were moving in close. Every ordinary thing was losing its ordinary shape. The bed, the dresser, the photos—all lurked in semi-darkness, a kind of fog, as if the things were half-alive.

She stared at the TV screen, at two once-proud buildings, damaged and vomiting smoke out over New York, into that clear morning sky.

The phone rang.

Maybe it’s Pasquale, on his way down to the street, she hoped.

But it wasn’t. It was his cousin Ralph Molfetta, the brother Pasquale never had.

She took a deep breath and waited for the inevitable questions that she wouldn’t have answers to.

“Er, have you talked to Pasquale today? Have you talked to him?” Ralph asked, cautiously tiptoeing around what she already knew.

“Yes, Ralph. I talked to him a few minutes ago. He’s in the building, but he’s okay.”

“Did you see what happened?” His voice was tentative, as if he didn’t want to take a chance with his cousin’s pregnant wife. Ralph had been best man at their wedding. He loved Pasquale as much as she did, and she knew his own feelings mirrored hers. She was sure he must have been feeling something of what she felt: that same paralyzing fear.

“I’m…watching,” she answered.

“I’m at home right now.” Ralph lived in West New York, New Jersey, directly across the Hudson from the Manhattan skyline, giving him a clear view of the Twin Towers. “Don’t worry, Louise,” Ralph reassured her in true Italian big-brother fashion. “Pasquale’s gonna be all right. He’ll be okay. You know Pasquale. Nothing’s going to get him.”

“I know, Ralph. I know.”

As soon as she hung up, the phone rang again. She answered. This will be Pasquale, and this will all be over. It will be Pasquale, and he’ll say, “Louise?” and I’ll finally wake up…

“Louise?” said her cousin Joanne, her former maid of honor. “I’m coming over.” She’d be coming from Westchester. “I’m leaving work now. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Louise nodded, as if Joanne could see her indicating, “Yes, it would be all right to come over. Please come.” She knew someone should be there with her. If it couldn’t be Pasquale, then another person she loved would help her through it. She would need others. But only until Pasquale gets home.

She tried to sit on the bench by the phone but couldn’t stay still. She couldn’t stand and look out the window, not down at the empty yard with the mowed green lawn, the beds of colorful September flowers, and the blue of their pool. It was all too ordinary, too peaceful, and too unreal.

She couldn’t get dressed either. She couldn’t get out of the orange Gap shorts and white t-shirt that now held her captive. She couldn’t bother with her long, honey-colored hair. All she could do was pace and watch, first the phone, then the television. There was nothing she could do; no one to call; no way to save him. All Louise Buzzelli could do was wait…and pray.

Pasquale’s white work shirt, the shirt he’d worn the day before, still hung on the bedpost. Usually she hated when he didn’t bother picking up after himself, but not that day. That day, she grabbed the shirt and put it on. There was the feel of him to it, the smell of him, as if he were there with his arms around her, making life better—the way he always had: her big, gorgeous Italian husband. She hugged the shirt to her body, squeezed the fabric in her hand, and held on.

He shouldn’t have gone back to work there after that ‘93 bombing, she told herself angrily as she searched the room for something else of comfort, something from their life together. I knew it! I hate that building. I hate where he works, up there near the top.

Somewhere in her mind, there’d always lurked the fear of fire. How would he get out if the building burned? she’d often silently and audibly wondered, but Pasquale had always assured her that the building would never burn. “They have…technology,” he’d said.

But now… she thought as she stood in the house they’d dreamt of together, soon to hold the baby they’d always wanted, now he can’t go back there. He’s okay. I just talked to him. He’s all right. They’ll have to give him time off. We can fix up Hope’s room and spend time together until she gets here…

The phone rang: Cousin Ralph again, keeping in touch and being reassuring. “I can see the Towers. I’m standing on top of my building.”

Louise could see too. She could see that other plane into the building, flying low, almost in slow motion. Maybe a rescue plane, she’d thought when she’d first seen it. Maybe that’s what it was. But… It was the same kind of fireball. What’s going on? Where is Air Traffic Control? It’s a clear day—at least down here. Why would planes be crashing into the Towers?

“He’ll be okay, Louise,” Ralph kept repeating on the other end of the phone. “He’ll be okay. Don’t worry, Louise. He’ll be—”

“I’ve gotta go.”

As soon as she put the phone down, it rang again. God, please let this be him. Please let it be Pasquale.

“Louise? Have you heard? Two planes! It’s a terrorist attack,” said Maria, the wife of Joe Calautti, who worked in the building with Pasquale. “I can’t get a hold of Joe.”

Louise assured Maria she’d talked to Pasquale, that he’d told her there was no smoke on their floor and they’d be out of the building soon. She hung up quickly, too afraid to tie up the line, just in case.

Again the phone: Rob Carlton’s wife, Lisa. Again, they had to hurry. The phone kept clicking with more incoming calls demanding attention, demanding answers. There were so many people—family, friends, and neighbors—all worried. None wanted to upset Louise, but they needed to know what she knew.

“Is he okay? Have you talked to him?”

She reassured one after the other, “I just talked to Pasquale. He’s fine.”

But the phone kept clicking with more calls, then more—none of them the person she most needed to hear from.

At last, the call came. “Louise?”

Pasquale! He must be out on the street. He must be hurrying home. Maybe I can breathe again. “Wh-where are you?”

“We’re still on the sixty-fourth.”

“WHAT?! WHY? Why are you still up there, Pasquale? GET THE FUCK OUT! Please, Pasquale. Don’t you know what’s going on? A second plane hit, and—”

“I know. We heard. We’re leaving right away. I just wanted you to know I’m okay and I love you…and I’m getting out.”

“YES, NOW! Now, Pasquale. Please…now!” She lowered the phone, hung up, and put her hands to her head, having only his promise and his shirt to cling to. Everything was beyond her. She had no power. It was all so crazy, not at all a dream. Nevertheless, there was no sense of reality to wrap around her. Madness like this doesn’t happen. Not here. Not in our country. Not to my husband.

“Louise!” a voice called from downstairs.

Joanne. Louise stopped only long enough to take a look at the room she and Pasquale shared. It was already different: the bed unmade, the down-filled comforter on the floor, and nothing as it should have been. But then, the world beyond that home they’d built together wasn’t as it should have been either.

She hurried down the stairs and hugged Joanne. They held on to each other and cried. She heard more words of reassurance, the empty words she needed to hear. He’ll be all right. Everyone’s telling me so.

“Did you hear about the second plane?” Joanne asked. “What the hell’s going on?”

In the family room, they turned on the huge TV and watched again and again, in bigger, more hideous detail, as the second plane hit the second building. Every major channel scrolled those same terrible pictures in slow motion, the plane flying straight, as if it were any plane on any other day, except hitting the second Tower: a fireball, followed by flying debris.

Peter Olinto, an attorney and old friend from a few towns away, walked in. As if he’d heard the news and run from his house, he arrived still dressed in bathrobe and slippers. “How are you, Louise?” He bent toward her in a gentle, caretaking way.

All she could do was look up and search Peter’s eyes. Is there something there that I don’t know yet? Is he—is anyone—hiding…anything?

The phone rang, but now Joanne leapt up to answer as Louise sat watching, grateful not to have to talk to anyone—at least not until she knew about Pasquale.

Along with Peter and Joanne, she kept her eyes glued to the TV screen, her only link to him and what he was going through. He’ll call any minute—from down on the street. He’ll call to tell me he’s coming home.

Things changed on the screen in front of her. There was smoke, but not the way the smoke had been before, billowing out from the place where the plane had crashed. Something beyond a fire itself was happening. There were huge clouds, rolling black, and what looked like a huge gray waterfall, like dark fireworks, with streamers falling.

The other building was coming down, Building Two! Louise watched, paralyzed and glued in place, as all that smoke became gray dust—monstrous, ugly mountains of rolling dust, as if a giant overstuffed vacuum bag had suddenly burst open. Quickly, with unbelievable speed, the invincible Tower fell, until there was nothing.

“NO! NO! NO! NO!” She pulled forward. “NO! NO! NO! NO!”

It was horrible, but that wasn’t his building. His was the one with the antenna on top; that crumbling monstrosity was the other. Her mind didn’t race, didn’t move. She sat frozen, watching as masses of debris and dust rolled through Manhattan streets, as people ran in front of clouds as high as the buildings. It was a horror movie. Death poured through Manhattan, rolling over people, over cars, over streetlights, over signs.

Thank God Pasquale stayed where he was, she told herself and took a deep breath. It was good that he was safe, away from the debris and the ash clouds clogging the streets.

She watched in disbelief, hugging Pasquale’s shirt around her. She more tightly clutched the crucifix she’d brought down with her.

Bad things come in threes, she hurriedly told herself again and again. A plane hit his building—one bad thing. A second plane hit the other building—second bad thing. Now Building Two falls—third bad thing. This is the end. No more bad things will happen. Bad things only come in threes…

It wasn’t a rational thought, but being rational was too painful; at that moment, there was no room for rationality. Don’t even think it, Louise! His building won’t fall too. If you think it, it might happen. Don’t think it! Don’t!

Joanne had her arms around Louise. They watched and sobbed as a seemingly invincible part of New York City came to an end. They stood together, watching the destruction of a city on television.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Twenty-Second Floor

“And I felt the walls crack, that I was next to…that was when I knew the building was going.

I was just praying and praying. And then I felt the walls separate…”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

(on WB11 News)

People around Pasquale stood still, their eyes huge and their mouths opened, as if breathing might bring on a second shaking. “We’ve got to go!” someone shouted.

“We’re going to be trapped.”

“Something’s going on…”

Steve patted the air in the direction of the nervous crowd. “It’s gonna be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll go.”

An older man, his face tight, pushed forward. He was an engineer, a member of the Port Authority Structural Integrity Group. He looked from face to face and shook his head. “The building’s unstable,” he warned, his voice ominous. “That’s why it’s shaking, hit the way it was.”

A few of the women caught their breath, and one began to cry.

Steve patted the air toward them, but his face bore the same fear as the others.

The smoke trickled in through the hallway doors. No one breathed deeply. The wet rags over their mouths helped, albeit not enough. And nothing could help the fear or that shake of the building—of everything around them not being as it should.

“Why haven’t we heard anything?” Pasquale demanded of Steve, who looked as unsure as Pasquale felt.

“I-I don’t know. Who the hell knows what’s going on?”

“What the hell are we still doing here then?” Pasquale asked, looking around at the people, most of whom were leaning against the walls, some crying, others talking on their cell phones, holding them close to their mouths so the screech of the alarm wouldn’t drown out their desperate voices.

“I don’t know. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Steve finally said.

In the lobby on the north side, Steve and Pasquale ripped the tape from the double doors to the hallway. They ran into the hall and to the closest stairway door, Stairwell B. To their surprise, the stairwell was well lit, and there was very little smoke on that side. They ran back to tell Pat.

“Let’s gather everyone together and tell them we’re leaving,” Pat said.

People grouped close to the hallway doors on the north side.

“I’m not leaving until we’re told to,” one man proclaimed, pulling back.

“Look,” Pasquale said, “at least stay in the stairwell. There’s a lot less smoke there. It’s easier to breathe. The firemen should be up here soon.”

Off in Irene Shulman’s office, close to the conference room, the phone rang. Someone ran to answer and came back with the news that it was Jerry DelTuffo, Physical Plant Manager of the George Washington Bridge, and a good friend of Pat and Steve’s.

Pat ran to talk to him and came back to report that Jerry was in Fort Lee, New Jersey, watching the smoke and fire from there. “I told him we’re leaving. I’m keeping the phone off the hook, and Jerry’s staying on the line, just in case we need to come back here and let him know what we’re doing.”

At 10:10 a.m., they gathered flashlights and wet cloths and made ready to make their descent down the stairs to the street, sixty-four floors below.

Someone took a head count: sixteen people. Pasquale was at the front of the line, Rosa and Genelle were directly behind him, then Simon Weiser, Lisa, Debbie, Susan, Franco, and others, with Steve and Pat bringing up the rear.

As they entered the stairwell, someone said in a relieved tone, “This doesn’t look too bad. The stairs are empty. Shouldn’t take long to get down.”

In the lead, Pasquale called back to the others, “Everything’s clear! Don’t see anything.”

The line snaked its way down behind Pasquale, and everyone was calm and moving at a normal pace.

When they reached the forty-ninth floor, they ran into firemen sitting on the stairs, exhausted from climbing in their heavy gear. Their hats were off or pushed to the back of their heads. With hollow eyes, like men heading into hell, they looked up at Pasquale as he led his group past. The men were sweating and worn out, with still many floors to climb. One, an Italian-looking, brown-haired fireman who appeared to be in his early thirties reassured them that the stairs were clear and that it would be an easy descent from there.

As they headed into the thirty-something floors, they passed additional firemen. “If you wanna save time, get into Elevator Bank 27 on the twenty-fourth floor,” one of the men called out.

But Pasquale knew better than to head that way. Even back in 1993, during the last bombing, he’d known it wasn’t a good idea to get into an elevator.

“That’s the fastest way to get trapped and killed!” someone who agreed with his assessment called out.

Another rescue worker made his way up toward them, his feet hitting each step with a loud smack of his boots. He looked at Pasquale and the others and nodded. “It’s all fine, a clear run. Just keep going,” he said and plodded on up the stairs.

They got down to the twenty-ninth floor, then twenty-eighth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-sixth. They kept up their slow, but steady pace: twenty-fifth, twenty-fourth…

Pasquale looked at the number plate on the wall. For just a moment, he thought maybe they could take an elevator from there. No. It’d be too risky. We have to walk down the rest of the way.

They’d reached the twenty-third floor.

We’re going to make it!

Next came the twenty-second floor. The stairs were clear.

Pasquale had kept careful count of the floors and knew there were only twenty-one left between them and safety. He turned to check on the others. “Twenty-second!” he shouted back at them, reassuring himself along with the others.

He was going to say something else and had opened his mouth to do so, but before the words could tumble out, the stairs gave a huge, growing shiver. The metal shook with a loud clamor beneath his feet. Everything around them—the floors, the walls, the stairs—began to shake with seemingly monstrous tremors. They were caught in a huge shaking machine, their bodies being mercilessly thrown back and forth. Everyone crouched low, bending as they hung on desperately to the railing that was trying to shake them free. Terrified and not knowing what else to do, they kept their white-knuckled hold, as if being connected to the building could save them. For a brief moment, they all froze. Around them, the walls heaved with gigantic tremors. Overhead, a loud and growing pounding came, as if heavy objects were being dropped directly above them: a mountain of concrete, stone, brick, steel, all grinding downward. The noise reverberated through the stairwell, growing until there was only noise and nothing else. The air filled with dust. A loud crash echoed everywhere as the stairs tore away from the wall and the world began to crumble around them.

Without thinking, Pasquale dived into a corner of the stairwell, beneath the landing above. He laid his hands on the shaking wall and buried his head between them, anything to protect himself from what was falling toward them. The roar grew louder. There were screams and shouts of terror as the noise grew far beyond anything the human ear could tolerate.

Pasquale held on, his hands flat against the wall. This corner will hold, he told himself. If I stay right here, in this little place, I will survive whatever is coming, whatever is falling. His fingers became a part of the surface he clung to. His back was turned to the things falling around him, hunched to take blows. If I can just hold on long enough, I’ll be safe. I’ll get out. I’ll see Louise again…

The wall next to his head began a slow, rending crack and sprang open at the top. The crack widened and jaggedly worked its way down through the block and plaster until it reached his hands and buckled there, beneath his fingers. Everything crumbled, falling around and away from him. There was dust in every molecule of air. Debris pummeled his head and body from every direction. His skin was strafed with falling pieces of the upper floors.

The building is…coming down! My God! I can’t believe this is how I’m going to die! Pasquale thought as he stayed tucked in the fetal position, but the building shattered, and the wall fell away. There was nothing to cling to, nothing to grab.

Louise…Hope…

Terrible screams seemed to merge with the thunderous roar, a choir of horror as the floors above and around him fell into pieces.

He pulled himself in tighter, into a ball. Maybe it will all pass me by. Maybe there will be something left to cling to when the dust settles. He pulled his head down to his knees and prayed again and again. “Take me quickly, God. Please! Quickly!” He pulled in a last, desperate breath as the floor gave way beneath his feet and the wall he’d clung to disappeared in a shower of dust.

Pasquale Buzzelli then fell into space, his body turning and twisting as he wafted, seemingly weightless, on a terrible wind. He became one with the walls cascading down around him, another piece of debris, like the metal, block, and paper—everything, all of it together, a part of the thick, choking dust. As if caught in a nightmarish never-ending theme park ride, he flew, gasping hard, his throat burning. He couldn’t catch his breath as he hung in air, suspended, then plummeted down into a free fall, his body tossed by gusts of hellish breath.

He knew he had only seconds left to live. Louise! Hope, I’ll never see you. Please, God, take care of them. Never again see Louise…My mother…My father…Quick death please! Oh God, please be merciful. Please make it quick.

Seconds. Only seconds to death. There were four flashes of light as he was hit with flying chunks of concrete, hit by so many things reduced to bits and pieces. There were just four flashes of light and then a single, last bright flash.

CHAPTER SIX

Nothing but Smoke

“Why did this happen? My son never hurt anyone in his whole life. He’s a good person. He’s never hurt anyone, never killed anyone. He’s a good person. Why would this happen to him?”

~ Antonia Buzzelli

In The Fashion Factory, a coat-piecing company in Hoboken, New Jersey, fifty-nine-year-old Antonia Buzzelli sat at her sewing machine, her head bent over the sleeve she was feverishly working into the body of a coat. For thirty years, she’d been doing the same thing, putting parts together, forming coats for women to wear. She knew what it was to have pain in her back after a long day of keeping her face down close to the fabric, her gaze squinted on the thin eye of the sewing needle. She knew what it was to wipe bits of fuzz from her lips, to sneeze when dust from the cloth got into her nose. Antonia knew what it was to look up into bright and bare overhead lights, into a thick haze. Up and down, needle into cloth, then out for another stitch: This went on hour after hour, day after day—a rhythm she was used to, as if it were part of her body. There was always noise: the clattering of her machine, the scraping of feet around her, the Spanish spoken in women’s voices as they worked at their own machines (a language she fought to understand), universally understood laughter, and the jovial sound of friendly conversation. In her head, through the long days, she was free to think, to plan ahead to when she and her husband Ugo would retire.

It was early yet, only mid-morning, with hours of sewing to go. Antonia’s mind was on later that day, what she would make for Ugo for dinner. Once she’d made that decision, her mind was free to move ahead, to when Pasquale and Louise’s baby would be born. A grandchild! I’ll be a grandmother! The baby will call me “Nonna”! Only a few more months, and her dream would be complete. Her child, her beloved Pasquale, would have a child of his own.

Antonia lifted a hand to brush her curly brown hair back from her face. She was tired—already tired and already aging. She could feel it in her hands and in her back. She’d once been a beautiful woman. Back when she was a little girl in Bari, Antonia’s mother had said of her that she had a smile that would light up the world. She’d learned that beauty doesn’t truly buy a woman anything. It did, however, afford Antonia the chance to land a man like Ugo in her life and to have a beautiful boy like Pasquale. Maybe that’s more than enough. What, beyond this, does a woman need? When she thought about it, she had nothing to complain about. If anything, she had to thank God for all her blessings.

Her hands stopped. She snapped the presser foot up and bowed her head. She crossed herself and closed her eyes for just a minute.

~ ♦ ~

Antonia had come to America from Bari, Italy in 1967. Almost immediately, she’d met Ugo and thought him strong and staunch, a man of great character, a man she could lean on. Back then, they’d lived in adjacent apartment buildings in Hoboken and saw each other often. Before long, he was there, on her stoop, every time she left her building. The beginning of their dating was tentative, for they were both shy. If they’d have been back in Italy, friends would have created occasions for them to meet, and it would have been safe. There would have been people around them to make the getting-to-know-each-other stage easier. Nevertheless, in America, they worked it out, as all young couples do if they are attracted enough to one another. They fell in love and married on July 27, 1968.

One year later, almost to the day, Pasquale was born, on July 26, 1969. He was a beautiful, big boy—so healthy. Everyone who saw their baby told Antonia and Ugo how blessed they were. Everything is perfect, Antonia thought. She’d been in a new country for only a short time before she was happily married and the mother of a beautiful, healthy boy. It was almost more than she’d ever wished for.

Pasquale began walking, talking, holding on to his father’s pant leg, and putting chubby arms up to be lifted. Her little dark-headed boy still fell gently asleep with his head against her breast. On those nights, Antonia hated to put him down in his own bed. If I could only hold him safe in my arms forever.

Then, when Pasquale was not quite two years old, it seemed to be disaster from one day to the next. One evening, Pasquale began to cough. She gave him a bit of honey on the tongue, but his cough grew worse. He coughed so hard that his little face reddened. He cried and coughed even harder. At the hospital, the doctor told them the name of the disease: Ugo tried to translate. Antonia didn’t understand their meaning completely, but the words still rolled around in her brain: recurrent respiratory papillomatosis. The huge, ominous, foreign-sounding words loomed over her child. There would have to be an operation, but until then, poor little Pasquale would have to be placed in a sterile hospital nursery. Pasquale, with his big blue eyes, his small, pursed lips, coughing until he’d bow his head, would stand in the crib, holding on to the rail, his tiny fingers white with the effort to hold him up. His arms jutted out to her to pick him up, to take him away from that place.

Ugo translated again what the tall man in the white coat said to him as she sat there wringing her hands, feeling trapped inside her own language without a way to ask her own questions, to demand her own answers. She sat forward on the hard hospital chair and fixed her eyes on Ugo’s face. Maybe he will say something that will save them both. Maybe this isn’t as terrible as we’ve been told. Maybe there will not have to be an operation after all. Sometimes doctors give good news, don’t they?

She almost smiled at Ugo, urging him to tell her what the man was saying, but Ugo kept his head bent. When he raised his eyes to meet hers, there were tears there, water pooling in the eyes of the hardworking man who only wanted happiness for his family. Her nails dug into her flesh. She didn’t want him to say the words. She knew if he said them, they would be real. If he said them, she might lose her baby.

“The doctor says Pasquale could die.” Ugo bent his large head, his wiry hair almost brushing against her cheek.

She wanted to put a hand out, to touch his head, to soothe him, but she couldn’t move. In Italy, there’d been many deaths. In Italy, people know how to mourn. How can I mourn here, in America? How can anyone know that if my son dies, I’ll be dead right along with him?

“He must make it through the next twenty-four hours—just twenty-four hours, Antonia. If he makes it through until then, the doctor says he has a chance. There will be an operation, but he has to stay here. He has to be kept where it is very, very clean. You understand?”

She nodded and thought. A few seconds have gone by already. Next it will be a minute. He will still be alive, and there won’t be twenty-four hours to wait. It will be less. My boy will keep breathing. He will live. Pasquale will get well again and come home.

Ugo called the family because Antonia couldn’t talk—not yet. He came back to tell her that Elizabeth, his mother, had promised to pray to St. Anthony, the patron saint of all children. Ugo’s mother had told him to tell Antonia not to worry, that her novena to St. Anthony would protect little Pasquale.

Antonia began to pray too, harder than she’d ever prayed in her life.

~ ♦ ~

As she sat in front of her sewing machine, mechanically going through her coat-making work, she remembered the words, her promises to God. She remembered the tears, the dozing off, then jerking back awake, feeling guilty that she would sleep while her child was in danger. She remembered the sterile gown they’d draped around her and the cotton gloves they’d made her wear so she couldn’t touch her own child with her own hands. She’d known then that it was all in His hands, for there was nothing she could do to heal her son’s poor lungs.

Antonia let the presser foot down and began on another coat, a black and white tweed. The material slid beneath her fingers, thick and nubby. It would warm some woman, maybe one who truly needed warming.

~ ♦ ~

Her son had lived, and she’d lived through that terrible day—one day, as if condemned to hell. Afterward, her mother-in-law had sent to Padua for a small black robe, part of the promise Elizabeth had made to God. She agreed that if He saved her grandson, she would see that Pasquale was dedicated to St. Anthony.

After Pasquale came home from the hospital, after he lived and began to thrive again, Antonia saw to it that he wore that rope-belted little black robe every Tuesday. Every Tuesday, she slipped the dark robe over her boy’s small head and tied the pale rope around his growing body and remembered how grateful she was for the child who’d come to her and changed her life. She thanked God for Pasquale not only on Tuesdays, but on every day of her life.

~ ♦ ~

Suddenly, something new invaded the factory: silence, save the noise coming from the loudspeakers. Sewing machines stopped one by one when they shouldn’t have stopped; it was not yet time for a break. The rows of women at their machines stopped sewing and began to listen. They weren’t allowed to get up or leave their places, but they bent their heads to hear the radio, which usually played Spanish music from speakers high on the wall. Now, though, there were only words.

What was that? She knew a little Spanish. Maybe a bad fire? Surely the women will explain and let me know what’s going on. They’ll use gestures, repeat words, and smile. They’re kind, and we all work together on this hard, hard job. Antonia would smile and nod back, then ask her sister-in-law Rose or her cousin. They worked on machines in other rows, and they would tell her what had happened.

The dark heads bowed over their machines as they listened. The women’s backs arched and were unnaturally still. One by one, the faces turned toward her.

Antonia blinked, not liking to be the center of their attention.

But then Alba, the woman who sat at the machine next to her, motioned to her to listen. Alba said, “Antonia, La Tor! La Tor! Esta…estacadendo!”

Antonia frowned and shook her head. She half-stood and looked to where her sister-in-law had turned to face her. Rose got up and walked slowly toward her. Her cousin Tonette got up from another machine and came over. The women bent beside her, one on each side. Their voices were low.

“Antonia, doesn’t Patsy work there?” her cousin asked gently in Italian, the language Antonia could understand.

“Where? In New York? You mean at the Twin Towers? Yes, but I don’t know if he’s working there today,” she answered. “Why? What is it?”

“Here.” Tonette held out her cell phone. “Call Louise. Find out if Patsy’s okay.”

“If he’s okay? Why would Patsy not be okay? Why? What’s wrong?”

“There’s…trouble there, down at the Towers.”

The worried mother took the phone, but her fingers trembled terribly as she tried to punch the right numbers on the small buttons. She finally got it, only to get a busy signal, and no message came on.

Another cousin, Nicky, a supervisor, came over and told her to use the phone in the office, and Antonia quickly complied—only to get another busy signal. With shaking hands, she dug inside her purse for her little address book. It was too difficult to think clearly. I have to call someone, anyone—any of my relatives. Maybe they’ve already spoken to Louise, or maybe they got a hold of Pasquale and my son’s home already, letting everybody know he’s okay.

Mima! Yes, I’ll call my sister-in-law, she thought as the number of the wife of Ugo’s oldest brother jumped out at her. She dialed, and Mima answered on the second ring, as if she’d been waiting by the phone. “Mima, it’s me, Antonia. Do you—”

“Antonia! Where are you?” Mima shouted at her. “Oh my God! You are still at work?”

And in that instant, Antonia knew. She dropped the phone and threw it away from her. She had to run. She had to get someplace where she could find out about Pasquale. She hadn’t driven, though, and she had no way to leave. “I have to go. No, no, NO!” She looked from her sister-in-law to her cousins. “I have to go…NOW!”

“I’ll take you,” her cousin Tonette said.

They left the factory and hurried out to Tonette’s car in the parking lot. As they drove, Antonia urged Tonette to go faster, to get to her home. She focused her eyes out the front window, not looking left or right, wanting time to pass so she could find her son, so she could hold him again.

They drove beside the river. She turned to look; she didn’t want to see, but she needed to know what all the talk was about, what had brought the rare hushed silence over the factory where she worked. There was the Manhattan skyline, and there, rising above the other buildings, was a tall column of smoke. Smoke? Smoke! There they were, the black, menacing billows, hovering above the important place where her son worked—her hardworking American son.

She saw nothing but smoke, and she knew what it meant. In that smoke, in that attack across the river, in that horror of destruction was her son.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Everything Was Changed

“I see movement, and again I’m just screaming, ‘No! No! No! No! Why, God? Oh Jesus, please don’t let him suffer. Please tell me what’s going on in this world. Tell me!’…I just lost it at that point.”

~ Louise Buzzelli

The phone rang again. Joanne ran to answer and came back with the phone in her hands, holding it out to Louise. “It’s Aunt Mima,” she whispered. “Can you…uh, can you talk to her? She wants to—”

Of course. Aunt Mima, Pasquale’s aunt, wife of his oldest uncle, a woman who commands respect. Louise took the phone.

On the other end, the woman who was usually so in control of herself said in her broken Italian, “Oh, Louisa! It’s Zia Mima. You okay? You speak to Pasquale? No worry, Louisa. It gonna be okay. Your cousin is there? Good. Now…”

Louise listened, but her eyes were fixed on the TV. There, right in front of her, more huge clouds of smoke began to billow out. The same nightmarish fireworks filled the screen, and streamers of smoke and ash came raining down. Horrified voices screamed, “NO! NO! NO!” as the top of a building burgeoned over, ready to collapse—a building with an antenna at the top.             

“Louisa! Louisa?” Zia Mima’s voice was in her ear, but she could barely hear. “Louisa! Turn off the TV. Stop looking. No matter. Pasquale’s gonna be…”

She dropped the phone, and the voice of their distraught aunt faded.

It had only been minutes since he’d called. Twenty minutes? He wouldn’t…he couldn’t have had time to leave the building. Oh God! He’s still inside! She screamed, then screamed again, then folded in on herself.

Joanne reached out and held her.

The two watched in horror from their safe and helpless place across a river from a city under attack, as the second building, Pasquale’s building, began to fall.

Louise watched, with her hands at her mouth, as her husband died. She stood in her New Jersey home, sun and blue sky beyond their safe windows, peace and quiet all around her, watching as Pasquale crumbled with the North Tower. Dark, rolling clouds chased running people through Manhattan streets. Clouds of stone and mortar rained over rooftops. Shreds of paper—terrible ticker-tape—and something beyond the imaginable, all of it eating up the sky and overpowering the city.

Yet she could do nothing…but watch.

At her center, something formed. It was beyond pain—more a nothingness, as if her very heart was being torn away. For a moment, she felt hollow, like a building after a fire—only the outer walls, the façade of something that had once been whole and solid. She stood, aware of her arms and skin, but only as if they belonged to another woman. That woman could smile and talk and live a life not touched so many times by tragedy. That woman would go on living; Louise, on the other hand, doubted at that moment that there was anything left to live for.

The next pain doubled her over.

All I can do is watch. Maybe it’s only a television program…nothing real…

She wrapped her arms around her body, holding herself together. She turned from the TV screen and ran blindly past her cousin. There had to be a place where she didn’t have to watch Pasquale die again and again. There had to be somewhere she could go to rid herself of pain. But all she had was her home. There was no real world left out beyond the walls of that place. Everything was changed—everything. She needed to take her home, her life back into her hands and hold on until whatever horror had overtaken the world had passed, and Pasquale could come home. She ran through the back door and out into their back yard.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Waking Up to Blue Skies

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

~ Lao Tzu

He opened his eyes. He saw an unbelievably peaceful, unbelievably blue sky above him. He lay still. He closed his eyes again and let his mind pull inward. So this is what death is like? This peace? This blue Heaven overhead. Or maybe, he thought, since he began hearing sounds, I’m someplace between Heaven and Earth, still connected to my past while I wait for the mystery to unfold. Maybe, an angel will come for me and tell me it’s time to go.

A shock of pain ran up Pasquale’s right leg. He winced and tried to grab at it, but as he shifted his body, debris from beneath him moved away, plunging over a terrible edge, skittering and bouncing down into nothingness. He lifted his head enough to see. A pit surrounded him—a very deep pit. Everything was covered by a scrim of smoke and dust. Miraculously, a few walls were still standing not far off. There were tall pikes of twisted metal, and there was fire.

He lay, it seemed, atop a mammoth pile of debris. Everywhere he dared to look, he saw nothing but cement, broken pieces of metal, paper—all around him and under him, as if he’d been the last thing to fall. And from his place atop the pile, he saw that improbable blue sky. It was as if the regal North Tower had been peeled away—floor after floor of offices, elevators, stairs, people, desks, files, phones, machines—all of it. All that was left now were the sky that had always been there, the debris, and Pasquale Buzzelli—for all he knew, the last man alive. If the entire city were like what he could see from his vantage point, there was nothing left of New York—or of the world, for all he knew. His mind couldn’t possibly grasp such an idea, such a…nothingness.

He took a deep breath and coughed hard. The taste in his mouth was metallic, thick, and brutal, like used-up air with no life left in it. Wisps of black smoke moved across his vision, drawing dark streaks across the blue.

It was beyond a nightmare. The mighty Twin Towers couldn’t have fallen down like something built of children’s blocks. With all of that technology, everything the building was and all it contained, it simply couldn’t have toppled. No, he thought. This has to be something else—an alternate reality. There has to be a reason. It’s a nightmare…only I’m awake.

His right ankle throbbed, and smoke filled his lungs.

I’ve got to tell Louise. She was watching TV. If she saw the building fall…

He strained to wiggle up a bit, not daring to move too much. “Pat!” he called as loudly as he could, desperately wanting to locate his co-workers, to know that someone else was still alive. He hoped maybe they could help him down from the place where he’d landed. “Steve?”

Only echoes returned his call.

“Lisa? Genelle?”

But there was nothing but silence—not another human voice. Even the horrid groaning had stopped, all the death rattles of the building. Dust filtered down softly like a gray snow flurry, covering him.

“Help!” he screamed. “Help?”

But nothing answered. There was not one single word spoken in that place that had always teemed with human voices.

He held his breath to listen, then called for help again. It was as if a huge breath were being held as he lay still, concentrating on clearing his lungs. “Help! Help…”

Occasionally there came a muffled bang. Once in a while, things around him creaked. He lay back in the kind of stillness that comes after a heavy snowfall, when the Earth just…stops. But there was nothing beautiful about this stillness. It was more like the melancholy quiet at the eye of a tornado—an evil, sinister, ominous silence. He lay stunned, dazed, and in shock, amazed at his survival and awaiting whatever would come next.

After lying still a while, he assessed how badly he was hurt. There was still pain in his right leg, but nowhere else. Twisted metal and pulverized concrete surrounded him, but no metal pipe or piece of steel had impaled him.

He’d come down the stairs with his cell phone, and that thought gave him hope. He wriggled around until he could reach the phone clip, but he found it empty; the phone was gone. No one would ever know he lay atop that mound of debris with his feet dangling off into space, high above what looked like the bottom.

He coughed harder, then pulled his shirt up over his face in order to breathe through the sweat-dampened cloth as explosions went off around him.

We’re at war, he told himself. We’ve been bombed. New York, a prime target.

He called for help every five minutes, knowing there had to be someone left. Surely I’m not the last man alive.

Finally, he heard it: “Richie!” A voice from way down below him echoed upward. A man was calling for someone.

Pasquale leaned up as far as he could without falling. There, in an opening in the rubble far to the left of him, he saw a man—a man with a megaphone. “OVER HERE!” Pasquale yelled as loudly as he could.

The man didn’t seem to hear.

He yelled again, this time desperately screaming for help.

At last, the man looked up, shaded his eyes with one hand, and shouted, “You okay?”

“My ankle!” Pasquale yelled back. “I think it’s sprained—maybe broken.”

“Hold on,” the man said. “We’ll get you some help.”

Pasquale lay back, relieved to know he wasn’t alone, to know he’d soon be out of there. He could call Louise. He could go home. It would all be over. Soon…

Probably another survivor, he thought of the man who was going for help. Maybe he’s been wandering around in all the chaos, hunting for anyone he could find.

Ten minutes passed, like a decade of hours, before another fireman was back.

He called up to Pasquale, “You okay, buddy?”

“I’m…stuck!” he called back, his throat raspy from the smoke.

“I’ll throw you a rope so you can shimmy down!” the man hollered.

Pasquale thought for a second, worried about trying to “shimmy” down a rope, but he answered, “Okay. Whatever you want me to do. I’ll even jump if you need me to, but I’ve never done that before.”

The man below was quiet. After a minute, he looked back up. “Who are you with?”

“No one. I was in the building, and…it just fell!” Pasquale shouted.

The rescue worker said nothing for a minute, then called back to others on the radio, back to his friends, “Holy shit, guys! We’ve got a civilian up there!”

There came a murmur of voices from below.

Finally, the same man called to Pasquale, “Hang on! We’ll get you down.”

Pasquale lay back, relieved. He was in pain, but at least he wasn’t alone anymore. At least he knew there were others out there. As soon as he could, he needed to ask what had happened to the city. He needed to know that the rest of the country was okay. Most of all, he needed to call home.

Across from where he lay was a standing wall, a precarious leaning structure of steel beams, one listing toward the other. A slight movement in that remnant of wall made him nervous, a reminder that it could all come tumbling down at any minute. Nothing around him was substantial. He hoped the men below, his saviors, would hurry. There was so much there that could still kill him.

From behind the broken wall, cracking noises coming from fires grew louder and louder. Steel heating, Pasquale told himself. But it cracked again and again, almost as if rounds of ammunition were going off. The noise intensified as the feel of heat grew around him. The fires circled him, getting closer. He looked over to where the rescue workers had been, and he saw them running—small, urgent figures so far below, back around the pile, away from the fire.

Pasquale lay still, alone again. The fires moved toward him; he had survived only to burn. As if a cruel joke were being played, he could only wait. It would not be the quick death he’d prayed for, but rather a slow onslaught of heat and flames.

There were pieces of steel and broken glass shards all around him. He snaked his right hand out, feeling over the shattered bits and pieces until his fingers closed around a sharp metal fragment with serrated edges. He brought it to him, holding on, letting his hand curl around it, testing the lethal sides. No. I will not wait for my flesh to burn. I will not die that way. He was ready, armed for death.

The fire crackled, and the single standing wall groaned.

Pasquale lay still, armed and ready to die.

CHAPTER NINE

How Could This Happen?

“It was the weirdest thing. It was so peaceful there. It was a beautiful day, and there I was in New Jersey…

but I’d just watched Pasquale die right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do.

I felt like I wanted to die myself at that point. I wanted to grieve. I wanted to rip everything apart.”

~ Louise Buzzelli

There, she thought, standing in the middle of the mowed green lawn, with late summer flowers around her. There. She looked over at the pool, the stone paths Pasquale had laid himself. Nothing’s changed. She looked up. The sky is perfect—not a single cloud. It’s all just as he left it this morning. Nothing bad could possibly have…

Louise sat down heavily in one of their lawn chairs and took a deep breath. She hadn’t really been breathing before. She inhaled the air of their world and heard a robin far off, singing to someone as if it were just another ordinary day.

How could there be such peace here while Pasquale is dying across the river? she asked herself. How could all of this still exist if he’s gone and I’m…destroyed?

For a moment she hated it all. She resented everything they’d built together. This was their world, not that place beyond the Hudson. Here, in this place, real life—the stuff of a family’s memories—surrounded her.

How could this happen? HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN? She wanted to scream but only sat heavily where she and Pasquale always sat after swimming. They’d positioned two chairs so they could look back at the house they’d worked so hard for, the home they’d been turning ever so slowly, little by little, into the home they’d dreamt of having.

She put her hands to her hair, grabbed hunks, and pulled; she welcomed the reality of physical pain. Sobs rolled out of her over and over, so powerful they bent her in half; she did nothing to stop them. Her throat burned from her howls. When she dared close her eyes, even for a blink, pictures flashed: building, clouds, smoke, and the eerie quiet of watching. Then, when she opened her eyes again, she was back in an Eden-like setting—all of it just a cruel, mocking lie. There in that yard, and over there in that city, there wasn’t one thing real around her—nothing she could hold on to and say, “This. This is my life. I can believe in this.”

She tried to stop her mind from being in that building with Pasquale, knowing and imagining what he’d just gone through, the death that had come from nowhere.

There was no life ahead for her—not without Pasquale. The dreams they’d dreamt had been meant for the two of them, then for the three of them.

Hope…HOPE!

Pasquale had been in love with his child already, before her birth. He’d said so in his words, written in Hope’s baby book: “Hello, my precious little angel. This is your father, Daddy, Dad, Pop, Papa…I felt you for the first time on July 4, 2001. It was the most amazing thing I have ever experienced. I heard your heartbeat, and I saw you move…the feeling of your little hand or foot pushing against my hand and through your mother’s belly was amazing…you, your mother, and myself connected at one time, for the first time…”

…and the last, Louise finished in her thoughts. No father at all—not a chance to be one. All our future children—gone. TWO planes! Two planes out of a blue summer sky, both carrying death…

She didn’t dare go back to that part. She didn’t dare think of it. It wasn’t only that moment. There was so much beyond, so much before. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I should have known better than to love Pasquale. In some terrible way, since childhood, she’d carried this awful thing in her: I…bring death. Mother…Father… If she loved anyone, they died.

There were three gone, her “magic three”—the three in her life whom she’d loved most. Everyone was just gone, as if thrown into holes in the world. On February 1, 1989, her mother, Josephine had died of cancer—a tragic day Louise had considered the worst in her nineteen years of life. Louise’s father, Harry, still depressed ten years after the loss of his wife, had died in a fire just from smoke inhalation, in 2000, just a year before the smoke came billowing out of those Towers. Again there’d been the horror of disbelief, but it had been nothing like this moment, her third loss. She knew she wouldn’t make it through this time. There was no living beyond the death of Pasquale.

She took deep breaths. When she tried to force herself through that moment in her peaceful yard, she could see only darkness, nothing but years of tragedy ahead.

All she wanted to do to avoid the growing pain, the absolute desolation, was die. She wished she had died with him. If only I’d have been there. Maybe if I’d have gone into the city today…

She got up to go stand at the pool’s edge, next to the clear water, deeply blue like the morning sky. It would have been easy to slide into the water, as easy as falling into Pasquale’s blue eyes.

What I will do, she told herself, as if thinking rationally, will be to slide into the water, float to the deep end, and then simply let go.

She stared down into the tranquil chlorinated water. It would be so easy this time to stop the pain. All I have to do is make a move, to put out one foot, and…

The baby moved inside her. With the quickening, breath-holding roll of a tiny being waiting to come into the world, her daughter protested. Then, there came another small kick from a tiny interior foot.

Overcome with the unbelievable feeling, the perfectly timed unborn intervention, Louise fell to the soft grass and hugged her arms across her baby, her Hope. That child was all she would have of him now—of her beloved Pasquale—and all Hope would have would be her. Pasquale would want his daughter to be born. He would want us to be happy…someday.

Instead of darkness, Louise began to embrace the light around her, to embrace the new life she still carried within her. I’ll have to sell the house, but I’ll stay here in New Jersey. It’s my home. I love it here. He loved it here. Hope will go to school, and she’ll know about her father. She’ll hear about him every day. Every day of her life, she’ll know about her father.

Joanne was out in the yard standing beside her, crying, putting her arms out to Louise. “You won’t be alone. I promise. I’ll move in. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

CHAPTER TEN

I Never Said, “I Love You”

“Every parent is, at some time, the father of the unreturned prodigal,

with nothing to do but keep his house open to hope.”

~ John Ciardi

Antonia and her cousin drove to Jersey City, where she and Ugo lived. There was only stunned silence in the car. When they reached the house, she ran, fumbled with the lock, and threw open the door. The answering machine blinked again, again, and again, demanding attention. Still fumbling, she touched the button to retrieve her calls. She listened to her daughter-in-law’s voice, Louise’s voice—a soft, begging voice Antonia had never heard before: “Mama Buzzelli, it’s Louise. Can you call me please?”

She dialed her son’s home, and this time the phone rang.

Louise answered. That they didn’t speak the same language didn’t matter. Antonia knew what she needed to hear. “Where are you, Mama Buzzelli? Where is Papa Buzzelli?”

“Work, work, work!” Antonia spat out, needing to get beyond all of the questions to what she had to hear.

“I want you to know I spoke to Pasquale this morning.”

Her voice is too even, too controlled. What’s happened to my Patsy? Tell me he’s all right!

“He was fine when I talked to him, but I haven’t spoken to him recently. Anyway, why don’t you come over here? Bill will come down to get you. He’s on his way. Bill called Anthony to get a hold of Papa Buzzelli at work. He’s out on the site. We can’t reach him…”

Louise’s voice faded. Somehow, Antonia understood every word, but she had questions. She needed to ask, needed to know. Is Pasquale alive? She couldn’t ask—not Louise anyway.

She said she is coming, Louise thought on the other end of the phone. Yes, Pasquale’s mother is coming, either with Bill or she’ll wait for Ugo. Anthony will find a way to reach him out at the construction site in Long Valley, and his parents will come together—Antonia and Ugo.

~ ♦ ~

Ugo had left the job site as soon as he understood that planes had hit the buildings, that one of the Towers was down. He couldn’t work another minute. He headed home through terrible traffic; Route 3 was at a standstill, and both the Lincoln and the Holland tunnels were closed. No one could enter the city. People in cars around him called to each other or stared angrily over their steering wheels. He sat waiting, moving an inch at a time. He was a silent man. He understood that planes had hit the buildings where Pasquale sometimes worked, but he was sure Pasquale wouldn’t have been there. Not today. No, Pasquale must be on his way home. That would take hours with all this traffic. Who even knows about the trains?

Ugo loved his son, but at that moment, trapped in traffic, he realized he’d never told Pasquale so. A strong father doesn’t spoil his son. A strong father leads by example. Those had been his mantras. There had been none of that hugging and kissing nonsense that American fathers and sons indulge in. That isn’t the way for a man to show his feelings. Surely Pasquale knows that. Surely he understands that there has always been…love.

Ugo didn’t reach his home until 12:30.

An almost frozen Antonia stood in the doorway. “The Towers came down,” she said to him, her hands covering her mouth almost before the words came out. “Nothing left.”

He didn’t want to look at her face, for her eyes were terrible, red and burning. “Pasquale?” He hated the taste of his son’s name on his tongue in the form of a question. Not for this.

“Louise said she talked to him—a couple times, she said. She wants us to come up right away. She’s upset. With the baby…well, we better go. She needs us.”

He nodded, agreeing they would leave. Ah, he told himself, looking for relief, so it’s only Louise she’s worried about. Pasquale must have gotten out. That’s good. We’ll go be with Louise until he gets home. We’ll stay and make sure everything’s okay.

They drove in silence, the way married people can be: together, yet alone in their own respective worlds.

After a while, Antonia began to talk about Louise, how worried she was about her. She let her words dwindle away, though they went on in her head: all of that in vitro; that long process they’d gone through; the day of a special dinner; and back to Pasquale and Louise’s house, where Louise had put a little wrapped box in her hands.

~ ♦ ~

“A present?” She looked into her daughter-in-law’s eyes. “Why a present?”

“Open it, Ma,” Pasquale urged as Ugo sat nearby, paying little attention to another one of those things women do.

Antonia untied the pink ribbon, her hands shaking a little. She knew that in spite of its small packaging, it contained more than a little gift. She’d had her hopes, but it wasn’t a thing for her to say aloud, just in case she was wrong. Her whole life, she’d tried to cause as little pain as possible. Since her own mother had died when she was a child, she understood pain.

She lifted the small lid from the box. There, buried under a shield of white tissue, lay a picture of a baby. The baby lay in a field of white daisies, with a wreath of the dainty white blossoms around her head. What a lovely little child, but…? She looked again at Louise, who nodded.

“Louise e incinta,” Pasquale whispered in an awed voice toward her.

Her hands flew to her mouth. She looked to Ugo, who had tears in his eyes, and smiled broadly at her children and her husband.

That was one of the happiest days of her life—so beautiful, so perfect, the culmination of two people who truly loved each other forming a third to show that love. It was the way the world was meant to be. She thanked God again and again that her son and daughter-in-law would have what they wanted most, a child, and that she and Ugo would have a grandchild.

There’d been no other children after Pasquale. When she’d almost lost him to that dreadful lung disease, she’d promised God that Pasquale would be enough, if He chose to let the boy outlive it. She’d promised Him that she would never ask for anything ever again—that she would be content with her life…until now.

Now she prayed for Louise and the baby. She prayed for her son. With almost an apology, she told God she was only asking His help because there was nothing she could do, and she needed His blessing on Pasquale’s life…again.

~ ♦ ~

They drove toward River Vale, past the station in Westwood, where Pasquale caught the train each morning when he worked in the city. There was the parking lot, and in it was Pasquale’s car, parked as he always parked before going into New York, before catching the train for the Twin Towers.

“Look, look, Antonia!” Ugo pointed eagerly toward the car, with relief in his voice. “That’s Pasquale’s. His car. It’s here at the station. See? I told you. He’s all right. He’s home already. Nothing to worry over. Our son’s all right.” There was triumph in his voice, as if he’d proven a monumental point to himself.

But Antonia turned on him. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded, her lips tight. “Don’t you understand? Don’t you know? He went there today. That’s why his car is still here. He went there…and now he’s gone! Don’t you understand? Our son is not all right this time! Our son is…dead.”

“No. NO!” Ugo looked hard over the wheel. “He got out. It’s the traffic. He’s just—”

“NO!” she screamed back at him. “NO! He didn’t make it. He didn’t make it out. My son is dead. Pasquale is dead!” She put her face in her hands and wept.

Ugo drove on in silence. From time to time, he shook his head, as if to clear what was happening inside of him. He whispered again, “He got out.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We’ll Get You Down

“I couldn’t wait to get down there to start digging for Pasquale and the others.”

~ Lieutenant Michael Martire,

NYPD Brooklyn North

“We’ll get you down!” the voices promised from below.

The firemen were back, and just that human touch after being caught in limbo in such an unfathomable place, such a terrifying oblivion of destruction, was enough to send relief surging through Pasquale’s body. Slowly, he let go of the metal he’d been holding on to, putting aside any thoughts of suicide as he let the weapon fall from his hand with a ringing sound—clapper against bell—down the pile of rubble. He was going to live, no matter what. I couldn’t have gotten this far, this close, only to die. The God he believed in wouldn’t be that cruel; he’d been chosen to live. He knew that. Why he’d been chosen wasn’t a question he could face yet, but it was there, lurking at the back of his mind: Why me?

More voices shouted around him: “Over here! Yeah, up on that ledge! See ‘im?”

It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard: human voices, working their way toward him. The firemen called to each other, and he called back. There were deep voices, rolling answers—new, normal sounds in the middle of all that chaos. “How we gonna get him down? What about…”

They talked back and forth as they figured out what they had to do. It was conversation, bouncing ideas off one another—something so normal, so human in that abnormal, inhuman place of creaking metal, crackling fire, dust, smoke, and the stench of something he’d never smelled before.

Below him—way, way below him—one of the men began to climb the pile where he lay. He could barely see the man, catching only a glimpse now and then as the fireman circled and climbed, putting a hand out to catch a piece of steel beam here, a stack of concrete there—testing each grasp, then taking another brave, cautious step. Everything moved so slowly, for there was so much there that might give way and kill them.

Pasquale lost sight of the man for a few minutes. He worried that maybe his would-be rescuer had fallen, that maybe there was no way for anyone to rescue him. Maybe this is the end. Maybe it’s hopeless, no matter what anyone tries to do.

It was almost more than Pasquale could take. His leg was swollen; he could feel the painful puffiness with his fingers. His ankle throbbed. He closed his eyes, pulled in a deep, arduous breath and decided that nothing was going to stop him from getting out of there. Not now. I’m too close…

He leaned up, straining to see the men below. Maybe they had to leave again, he worried. Maybe they’ve given up because they can’t find a way to get me out. What fire department would have trained for something this big? What awful mind could have dreamt of a disaster this monumental?

Hope and despair battled inside him, but he knew there was no choice. He was sure that if he’d only wait and lie still, someone, somehow would eventually come for him. What else can I believe? All I can do is…wait.

High up, behind him, there came the sound of rock falling on rock. He craned his neck back to see. He thought it could be just a settling of the pile he lay atop, or else the whole thing could be falling again. He was powerless either way. If the pile he lay atop gave way, he would fall to his death, into the open pit below. Every sound now took on magnified meaning.

There was a sharp noise behind him, and he tipped his head back to find the source of it. A fireman stood there, up on a mound of steel, a stranger with a dirty face. The man’s boots kicked down rubble as he scrambled to get a foothold. He talked as he scrambled. Pasquale couldn’t tell if he was talking to him, down to the other fireman, or to himself. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He only knew the voice was a welcome relief.

There was a closer noise, almost a thud, behind Pasquale’s head as the fireman dropped down from another part of the pile to stand directly behind him, into the small space where twisted pipes stuck up in a circle around Pasquale.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” the man said, his grimy face just inches above Pasquale’s. He was at work immediately, his face intent on fashioning a rope into some form of cradle. He bent to his work as if it were any fire, any place—all in a day’s work for a fireman and just another dirty job that somebody had to do.

There wasn’t anything Pasquale could think to say to the man in his dirty yellow coat, his tattered and tarnished helmet, to the man with the painful-looking red eyes. If Pasquale had ever expected to see an angel in his life, that angel wouldn’t have looked at all like that man, but there he was, so certain he was going to save a life.

“What time is it?” Pasquale asked as the man worked behind him, threading rope over rope.

The firefighter stopped, frowned, and then checked his watch. “Three o’clock, buddy.”

It had been hours since the building had fallen, hours since Pasquale had flown into free fall. It didn’t seem possible.

The man reached for Pasquale. “Okay, fella, now put this rope behind your knees, then up under your armpits,” the guy said. “We’re gonna hafta lower you down. Here we go,” he said and slung the rope attached to the cradle over a twelve-inch fire standpipe. He pulled at the rope, and then pulled again. “Good enough. It’ll hold just fine.”

The ropes went around Pasquale. He tested them, pulling to see if he would be safe. It worried him to depend on those tethered ropes, but that worry only lasted a couple of seconds. He tugged at the ropes one last time. Everything seemed sound. He had to believe in the guy, to believe he knew what he was doing. Pasquale inched his way to the edge. He knew he had to be careful. If I drop now, I might take the fireman with me—and maybe the others below too. His leg twinged. Not now!

“I’ll hold on up here while I lower you to the next guy. There are guys in position to grab you all the way down.” The fireman nodded, encouraging him.

Pasquale weighed close to 300 pounds, and at six-two, there was a lot of him to move. “You sure this is gonna hold me?” he asked a last time, just a little doubt bothering him as he inched his way slowly to the edge, toeing steel beams, concrete, and things he couldn’t recognize any longer.

“Rated to 600 pounds.” The man looked down at him and grinned. “Oughtta hold ya just fine, friend.”

Pasquale tested the rope again, scrambled his feet around, and then lowered his legs over the edge. He held tightly to the ropes around him.

“I got you up here!” the rescuer called after him. “You’re free. Let go. There you go. That’s it. Now let yourself drop. Don’t worry, buddy. You won’t fall far.”

Pasquale held his breath. So easy to say, “Let yourself drop.” That edge was all that had been between him and a fifteen-foot fall down into an open, black, bottomless pit. What they were asking of him called for a lot of trust—in them and in their rope that could supposedly support twice his weight. Still, he wanted out of there, and if it took trust, that was what they were going to get. He inched the rest of his body over the edge and let go.

At first, his feet hung in space. He dangled, turning to face the stack of rubble. He pushed at the pile with one hand and held tightly to the rope with his other hand. Slowly, inch by inch, he moved downward.

Inch by inch he went. He used his fingertips to push his body back, away from the concrete and metal. He dug his toes in wherever he could get a firm enough hold. The pain in his leg and ankle shot through his body, but he couldn’t think about it, other than to wince every once in a while.

He held on to nothing. He dangled, then fell again—off into space.

But as the firefighter had promised, he didn’t fall far. The small man above held on. The rope caught and grew taut. Slowly, he let out more rope, until Pasquale hung just above the heads of two more firemen who were waiting below, with their arms up to grab him.

One of the men held on to his foot. Pain became a red thing behind his eyes. Something was definitely wrong with that foot, but he didn’t have time to think about broken bones. He had to help them save him. He had to concentrate, for that was his only way out of there—the only way to get home.

He descended a bit further. His arms and hands hurt, his arms were stretched and taut, and his flesh was being mercilessly scraped by the rope. It seemed harder and harder to catch his breath. He thought maybe he’d been holding it. Maybe there’s more wrong with me than I thought…

The next pair of arms came up to catch him. One of the men got his hands under Pasquale’s arms and pulled his body across the twisted beam, to where the man stood.

Pasquale settled beside him on that massive beam, pain almost knocking him senseless. He didn’t know how he was going to go on. Something was very wrong. He was too weak, and his head felt light. He worried that he’d black out, that he’d fade out cold again any minute.

“Can you stand?” a fireman asked, bending over him, wearing a dirty, concerned face. Pasquale nodded. If that’s what it takes… But the pain must have showed.

“Do you think you’ll be able to walk on that?” the fireman asked, pointing at his leg, swollen to the point of ballooning his pant leg. “We’ve got a lot of climbing to do in order to get you down.”

“Let me try,” he begged. “I’ve got to call my wife. She doesn’t know I’m alive.” It may not have been what he should have been concerned about right then, but Louise was all that was on his mind, especially now that he knew he was going to live. If she saw the building come down…If she thinks I didn’t have time to escape…My God! Louise! The baby!

The fireman nodded. One stood in front of Pasquale while the other was behind him. They had tied a rope around just him in case he might fall. The firemen looked concerned, but they began to work their way down, always testing each foothold, finding another when the pile shifted beneath their feet. Pasquale’s body was covered with soot and ground dust and sweat. The place was hot, the pain intense. They moved down another 100 yards, and that was it. That was all he could take.

I need to keep moving, but I can’t. Rest…I just need to rest, only for a minute… He found a small ledge, sat down, and put his head in his hands. He had to take a break, or he was going to faint. “Just five minutes, okay?” he mumbled to the fireman climbing down with him.

The man looked worried.

Pasquale turned to stare hard into the wide, empty abyss below, another yawning chasm. He needed to take deep breaths, to feel the breeze around him. It was still hot with smoke and strange aromas, but at least the air was moving there. He could finally breathe. But…

The fireman called to the others.

Voices came back, but Pasquale couldn’t make out what they were saying. Inside his head, it was as if he couldn’t hold on. Inside his head, everything went white, then dark. So, so weak…so, so tired…

“Hey, fella, what’s your name?” a fireman with a thick Irish brogue asked, as if to distract him.

“I…er…uh, Pasquale. My wife’s pregnant. I’ve got to get…”

There were more men beside him, along with a gurney to carry him.

“Relax, buddy. Let us do the rest. You’ll be out of here soon.”

Hands grabbed and strapped him on the gurney, and then he was lifted, up and over the piles of block and pipes and steel. In places, the hands that reached up to take him let the gurney slide, and then he’d be stopped and handed on down. Hands stretched up to get him and worked in unison to move him to safety. Again and again they went: up, holding on, down, closer to the ground.

One of the firemen grunted under the unexpected weight of the big Mr. Buzzelli as the gurney was handed to him. “Man, you are one heavy fuck,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t worry now though. You’re almost there. We’ll get you back to your wife.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking about going on a diet.” Pasquale smiled up as he slid on passed. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“John,” the man answered. “I usually work the fire rescue boats on the river—but not today.”

They moved him—the line of heroic men—the last 100 feet, down to the Westside Highway. There, more hands took him and slid him, this time into a waiting ambulance. The highway—what he could see of it—was like nothing Pasquale had ever seen before: no rush-hour traffic, no noise, and no horns. The Westside Highway was a parking lot, full of standing emergency vehicles, ambulances and police cars stopped at odd angles. Regardless of all the people standing about, it was nearly silent, with no shouting and no frenzy, as one might expect.

It’s so…quiet.

“We’re going to St. Vincent’s. Where you hurting, guy?” a paramedic asked, leaning over him.

The paramedic’s face, like those of the other rescuers, was like no face Pasquale had ever seen. There was something written there, something bad. Pasquale only had one thought as the man efficiently slapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and knocked on the window to the driver: getting home to Louise.

The siren came on, and the ambulance screamed away from the foot of the place where Pasquale Buzzelli had almost died.

“I’m okay,” Pasquale said, lying there on that flat stretcher, machines flashing around him and overhead. “What I need is to talk to my wife. She’s at home. She’s pregnant. I really need to talk to her.”

“Here.” The guy brought a cell phone to his side. “I hope you can get through. The city’s a mess. Everything’s just…out.”

He nodded. I’ll just keep dialing. I have to talk to her, whatever it takes.

He dialed the familiar number, and the phone rang at the other end. It rang again, and he held on tight, closed his eyes, and pictured Louise. He pictured her there, in their home, and listened to the phone ring.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Just a Moment More…

“As human beings, we need to know that we are not alone, that we are not crazy or completely out of our minds, that there are other people out there who feel as we do, live as we do, love as we do…who are like us.”

~ Billy Joel

At the home of Pasquale and Louise, Antonia and Ugo got out of the car slowly, as if already carrying death between them. There were vehicles there, in the driveway and along the street. Others had gathered, and it didn’t matter who they were. It didn’t matter that people knew and had come to mourn. It was all about Louise and the baby; first the baby, and then they could face what lay ahead.

Louise sat at the kitchen table, with tears streaming down her face. When she saw them, she struggled up from her chair and put her hands out.

In the garage doorway, Antonia stopped. There was something terrible in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. She saw what no mother should ever have to see. She ran across the kitchen floor. A voice was screaming. A voice trailed along behind her, wailing as grieving women have always wailed through the decades. She fell to her knees in front of Louise. Her hands clawed at the bulging abdomen, as if she could hold and protect the child. She cupped her fingers over the life beating underneath Louise’s flesh and closed her eyes. “Pasquale! You can’t die!” She threw back her head and screamed toward Heaven. She howled for her son and for his growing child, the warm, safe life beneath her fingers. “You can’t die! This baby needs a father. SHE CAN’T GROW UP WITHOUT A FATHER!”

Louise rested her hands on her grieving mother-in-law’s hair and leaned over her. “Mama Buzzelli, please! Please…”

Ugo neared to help his sobbing wife back to her feet. He led her to a sofa to sit.

She bent in on herself, pulling away from everyone as she cried and shuddered.

Louise put a hand out toward her mother-in-law. Antonia’s agony was so terrible. But what do I have to offer her as consolation? Louise asked herself. What kind words can I possibly whisper? She had none to offer. There was nothing she could see ahead for any of them. There was no clear path, just as her life had been before. What can I utter to this woman who’s lost her only child? The two of them were equally hurting, grieving the loss of a great man—a man they both loved. She looked over at her mother-in-law and felt the tears coursing down her cheeks. They were bound by Pasquale Buzzelli’s death, the two women, as they had been bound by his life and would be bound by the birth of his child—as women have always been, throughout all of time. They were just two bowed figures, victims left to suffer from the hatred and cruelty of others.

People arrived, asked worried questions, gasped at the answers, and cried. Rivers of tears were everywhere.

Louise looked around for Peter, their kind friend, and saw so much kindness to thank people for. “Did Peter go?” she asked Joanne.

Joanne nodded. “He had to, Louise. His brother was in the Pentagon.”

Louise took a seat away from everyone. She buried her face in her hands. What they were all feeling went beyond pain. It wasn’t an ordinary thing; there was no ordinary name for it.

For just a minute, she needed to get away from all of those who’d come, whether out of love of out of grief. For just a minute, she needed to feel his strong arms around her, to hear his deep voice in her ear, to feel his breath against her skin. She needed his strength to be there for her. Just a moment more of Pasquale…alone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Windows on the World

“Will you share with me one love, one lifetime?”

~ Raoul

(The Phantom of the Opera)

June 6, 1997

“I don’t really want to go out to dinner down there on a Friday night, with all that traffic.” His voice hesitated on the phone. “Somebody gave me tickets to this dinner, but—”

“Why? Why not?” she said, growing impatient with him and not understanding how he could be so hesitant about Windows on the World, the restaurant on top of the South Tower, down at the Twin Towers, where he worked. “It’s a free dinner. It’ll be kind of nice. I’d like to go…if you want to take me.” She knew how to get to him.

“Oh, all right. I’ll think about it.”

And that was that, until she brought it up again: “What are we doing Friday? Should I meet you there? You gonna come here? Should I go to your house in Jersey City?”

“Oh yeah. Yeah, I forgot about it.”

“We never get a chance to go out to dinner in the city. It’ll be a great time.”

He nodded, and they made plans to meet at his house since it was easier to get downtown from there.

So much play-acting—all of it. She could tell she was supposed to push; he, on the other hand, was supposed to act hesitant. Despite all the hesitation, she sensed he was nervous about something. She wanted to ask him what was going on, but she didn’t dare. For Pasquale, there was a place he went inside, a place that was his alone, a place where he planned and considered and made his judgments. She’d already come up against that solitary place, and she knew better than to push him too hard.

Still, it was Windows on the World, an elegant restaurant. It was going to be a big day, perhaps the biggest of Louise’s life—if her woman’s intuition was telling her the truth.

They’d been dating for two years. They knew each other well and fit together as if there’d never been a time before they were a couple. They’d already shared so much, she and that big, strong, comforting man—that good-looking man who could dim her painful past just by his touch. Pasquale was her amazing friend and lover, the man she’d dreamt of but had almost come to believe didn’t really exist—at least not for her. They’d been introduced by friends, Mike and Jill, and he’d bowed slightly as Jill said, “This is my friend Louise.” He’d taken her hand as if to shake it, but it was so much more: the immediate connection, the laughter behind his formality, the feeling of her small hand in his. There was safety there, protection, and promise—so much promise.

Even if she was wrong about what Pasquale had up his much larger sleeve, it would still be a big evening for her, a chance to dress up. She made careful plans: a powder-blue business suit with the skirt above the knee and a pretty little jacket. It was corporate enough, since she’d be coming from work at an executive training company, Point & Click, but it was equally chic enough for an evening on the town with her man.

June 13, 1997

She hoped she wasn’t wrong, sensing something different about him as he took her arm and helped her toward the tall, magnificent buildings.

There wasn’t going to be any other man in her life, at least none like that Pasquale Buzzelli, with his serious look, his ready smile, his keen intelligence. He’d simply appeared, and everything had changed for her: the way the world seemed, her place in that world, her sadness.

There had been so many adventures: dates and outings and trips together; meeting his mother and father; learning to communicate with his Italian mother, who spoke little English. She’d even taken Pasquale to meet her father, who was already melting into the deep depression that would be with him until he died. The two men respected each other immediately.

Those weren’t things she’d ever dared to dream about. Her life hadn’t worked that way up until that point. There had to be limits to what she told herself, to the dreams she dared to dream.

The elevator was golden and large. Pasquale pushed the button, and they changed elevators and went up to the revolving restaurant.

As the doors opened to a long hall, Louise felt a flutter of nervousness. Is this going to be the place where my life will change forever, or am I just kidding myself? Maybe there’s only a nice dinner ahead. Disappointment began to set in. She told herself to enjoy the evening, the restaurant, the food—another wonderful night out with Pasquale—and expect nothing more. She’d learned to expect nothing so she wouldn’t be so let down. For Louise, expecting nothing meant not getting hurt…again.

“Buzzelli.” Pasquale gave the tall maître d’ his name.

The man led them to a table by one of the huge windows that hung all around the restaurant. The world lay beneath their feet, all of New York. It was still light out, so they had a panoramic view of miles and miles of New York, with its buildings, rivers, and bisecting streets and avenues.

Around the room were huge bouquets of flowers in elegant vases, atop white linen-covered tables. Candlelight gleamed off the perfectly shined silverware. It was a beautiful place, and it was so good to be there with him. Louise smiled, showing her gratitude for how special he’d made her feel, for how he’d made her feel a part of something bigger than both of them.

“Knowing where I got these tickets, I thought for sure we’d be sitting by the kitchen,” Pasquale joked, leaning across the table toward her to speak in his low, rumbling voice.

They began with an appetizer, Seafood of the World, and were presented with three tiers of shellfish: lobster, clams, and crab.

“I can’t believe you didn’t want to come here,” she said, shaking her head at him as if such a bad decision astounded her.

He smiled, and his eyes sparkled.

Something was going on. She was sure of it. She saw it in the odd flicker in his eyes.

“Yeah. Well, maybe we’ll come here again sometime.”

They talked and laughed as the sun went down and the lights of the city came on. Bridges were slowly outlined. The boroughs beyond Manhattan came to life. Streaks of white headlights and red taillights—almost smeared—streamed through the roads and streets. The couple ate while they marveled at the city, maybe even a little at themselves, and at where they were.

Their waiter brought a dessert menu.

“I’ll be right back.” Pasquale stood. He looked preoccupied at first, then a little distant. “I’ve got to find the men’s room.”

She nodded and watched him walk away, noticing the straight, wide back of his business suit, the neatly cut dark hairline above his white shirt, and the walk that seemed so sure. Then she looked over the dessert menu, trying to make the seemingly impossible choice between so many luscious descriptions that she could almost taste them from the words on the page.

A moment later, Pasquale was back, weaving his way between the labyrinth of tables. His eyes were locked on hers.

In that instant, as she caught his gaze, she knew. Oh my God! It’s real. She opened her eyes wide and watched, waiting for what was going to happen. He’s going to propose to me right now, right here! She knew it. She saw it in that nervous look of his, that dear, handsome face of his looking so…concerned.

Then, he was at the table and down on one knee.

Impossible! In this place, above all places in the world, he’s going to ask me to marry him?

“I love you very much.” He took her hand in his. His eyes were warm, and his face was like that of a little boy. Maybe he was even a little afraid of what her answer might be. “Will you share with me one love, one lifetime?”

It was a lyric from one of their favorite songs, “All I Ask of You,” from The Phantom of the Opera. They’d seen it so many times that the words lived within both of them, but never like that—never about the two of them, a kind of uniting anthem.

“Will you marry me?” His voice shook just a little.

Louise closed her eyes. She had to encapsulate that moment, to make it a part of the long memory of her life, to weave it into a fabric so fine and lasting—all perfect.

When she opened her eyes, he was holding the loveliest ring in front of her.

Her eyes filled with tears. How can any woman contain this much happiness? How can I simply say, “Yes” when a simple “Yes” isn’t enough? She reached out, not for the ring, but for him. If I could just hold him. If I could just put my arms around him and feel the warmth, the welcome.

There were tears in his eyes too, as he reached out to her.

Around them, people cheered and clapped. A dessert of chocolate, adorned with celebratory candles and sparklers, appeared before them, illuminating their sweet joy.

“Yes,” she whispered against his cheek. “Yes,” she said again, looking deep into his blue eyes.

~ ♦ ~

“Yes,” she whispered to herself and pulled her hands down, away from her tear-soaked face. For always…forever. Her “Yes” was meant for him again, wherever he was, for wherever Pasquale was, he was with her. She knew that and was comforted by the resounding lyric of their lives together—that simple, meant-forever word: “Yes!”

The telephone rang again and again. Louise heard the rings and the low, muffled, not-sure-what-to-say voices in her house.

She’d meant to leave the kitchen. She’d meant to find a place where there was no friend or relative or neighbor there to touch her, to hold out empty, helpless hands. She’d meant to move past the ringing phone, but she stopped, put out her hand, and lifted the receiver.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

And I Picked Up the Phone…

“Louise, it’s me.”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

“Hello?”

It was Louise’s voice, but it was faint. He couldn’t believe anything could still be that normal—his wife’s voice, the same voice he’d heard nearly every day for so long, as if the world hadn’t just come crashing down around him. “LOUISE!” The word, her name, spilled out of him, from somewhere so deep inside.

There was a sharp gasp from the other end, a fast, drawn-in breath.

“Louise, it’s me,” he hurried on. “I’m okay. I’m alive, all right? I don’t know how, but I am alive!”

“Pasquale? PASQUALE!” she screamed, then kept on screaming, until she shouted, “Oh my God! It’s Pasquale. He’s ALIVE!”

There were more screams and people shouting behind her. From Pasquale’s end, it sounded as if the house were full of people, as if a party was going on, but he knew it wasn’t a party. Everyone had gathered there for his wife. They’d all gone to be around Louise, to support her. My mother and father? Yes, of course they’d be there. And all our friends! He closed his eyes and leaned over the phone for a minute, envisioning Louise and all those faces around her, everyone there to help her through it.

There was a triumphant laugh at the other end. Louise was not only happy; she was screaming with laughter, as if coming back from some other place. “Where are you?” she demanded in that new, exalting voice.

“I-I don’t know. I don’t know, Louise. I was in the Tower when it came down. I survived, but don’t ask me how. I don’t know. But I’m alive.”

“Right now, where are you calling from?” she asked again, her voice softening, almost cradling him.

“I’m in an ambulance. They said they’re taking me to St. Vincent’s.”

“Are you all right?” she asked, fear again rising in her voice.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. They just have to check me out—”

“I love you,” she cut in, every word filled with feeling.

“I love you too. Are you okay? I mean, with all of this and the baby, I was worried—”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Come home, Pasquale. As soon as you can, come home.”

And then there was a different voice; someone had taken the phone from Louise. Mike Potenza, a good friend who’d gone to Cooper Union with him and had introduced him to Louise, was on the line.

God only knows how many others are there.

“Christ, man, what happened?”

“I-I don’t know. I was in the building, and it collapsed, but I survived…somehow.”

“Man, you’re unbreakable.”

“I’ve gotta go. I’ll be home as soon as I can. The paramedic wants to look me over. I’ll call, okay? As soon as possible.”

“We’re all waiting, Pasquale. I…we just need to see you to make sure—”

“I’ll be home. Don’t worry. I’ve made it this far. I’ll be there.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A Long Day

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art. It has no survival value;

rather, it is one of those things that give value to survival.”

~ C.S. Lewis.

The ambulance pulled into a side alley at St. Vincent’s. The paramedics wheeled Pasquale out and began cutting off his clothes: his pants, shirt, shoes, and socks—yet more casualties of the day. All his belongings went into a plastic bag they’d placed under his stretcher. He was then passed from hand to hand. Faces bent above him, asking questions. The emergency room was surprisingly quiet though. He’d expected uproar, but there was none.

“Where are your hurt, sir?” A nurse leaned above him, ready to write down everything he said to her.

“Right leg…and my foot hurts. I was in the building when it came—”

But she was gone.

An orderly wheeled him into to a hall. “You’re going for X-rays,” he said as he parked Pasquale’s gurney and vanished as quickly as the nurse had.

It was quiet again for a moment, and then there was another nurse, pushing him into a room, then transferring him to the hard platform of an X-ray table.

A doctor waited nearby.

“I was in the building when—” he tried to tell the doctor.

“We’re set up for casualties,” the doctor recited, interrupting Pasquale. “We’ve been ready for hours, but nobody’s coming in.”

“I came down with the building. Got hit in the head, and—”

But that doctor didn’t listen either. Just as Pasquale was truly beginning to understand what he’d been through, there was no one to tell.

“You’ve got a fracture of the cuboid bone.” Another doctor frowned over his charts as he spoke, and he didn’t look at Pasquale.

Where is everyone? Where are the other survivors, all those people from those buildings? Where are my friends, the men and women I work with? Where has everyone gone if not here?

A few people were being treated for burns off to one side of the room. Others, in other places, were getting help for minor cuts and abrasions.

A nurse applied burn cream to Pasquale’s right calf, then to his back and scalp. His right leg was swollen to almost twice its normal size, but the doctor assured him the swelling would go down soon.

“You’re a lucky man,” said the dark-eyed doctor, looking up from the soft cast he was putting on Pasquale’s foot. “Do you have a way to get home? You don’t want to be here tonight. We’re expecting many injured, and with the relatively minor injuries you’ve sustained, you may end up sleeping in the cafeteria or even a hallway if we run out of room.” He handed Pasquale a pair of crutches and told him to see his doctor in the morning or get to another hospital in New Jersey as soon as possible. “You will need to stay off the foot for four to six months,” he added.

“Maybe…a phone?” Pasquale asked, not sure how he was going to get out of there.

“Hey, Pasquale!” Someone behind him called his name.

Phil, a friend of Mike’s, came bursting through the doors. “I got a call. Heard what happened. What’s going on?”

“Phil?” Pasquale said, glad to finally see a friendly face who would pay more attention to him than to his medical charts. “Hey, I don’t know where you came from, but I can leave, if you can get me home.”

“Not like that you can’t,” he said with a smile, pointing to Pasquale’s immodest, backless hospital gown.

A nurse came in with a bag of what she called “donated wearables.”

Pasquale had a forty-two-inch waist and wore a fifty-two-inch jacket, so he didn’t expect much, but he happened to find a pair of jeans. They wouldn’t button around his middle, but he could pull them on—except for the bad leg; the nurse cut off the pants on that side. There was also a white sweatshirt with a cartoon character on it. Somebody’s regrettable vacation find, Pasquale thought as he tried it on. It had never been worn, and while it wasn’t exactly his style, it was good enough to get him home.

“They’re gonna wheel you out front,” Phil said to Pasquale, who sat in a wheelchair in the middle of the waiting room, dressed in his funny shirt and unbuttoned, one-legged jeans, desperately hoping to be rolled out of there soon. “I’ll try to get a cab.”

A nurse pushed Pasquale out through the wide doors to the street.

He wasn’t sure what to expect outside, but what he didn’t expect were the cameras, the shouts, or the crush of media, waiting to get pictures of the victims.

Cameras snapped, and rude, pushy mouths yelled things at him. They seemed to be like vultures or scavengers, waiting for prey.

If he could have, he might have ambled out of that chair and run, as far away as he could get from them. He had never dealt with the media before, but something in him didn’t want to go near them. “Get me outta here!” he called over his shoulder to the nurse. “Anywhere! Just get me away from—”

She turned the chair fast, heading off in the opposite direction.

Phil was back with them, running to catch up. “No cabs anywhere.”

A policeman jumped from a van standing at the curb. “Hey, fella, you need to get somewhere?” he called over.

“How about Gramercy Park? We have to get this guy home!” Phil answered.

The cop nodded and helped Phil maneuver Pasquale and his bum leg into the van. As the doors closed, Pasquale looked back toward the front of the hospital. There were only the figures of the reporters, almost motionless: no screaming ambulances for them to chase and no chaos. He’d come down along with one of the tallest, most well-known buildings in the world. Surely there have to be other injured people. Surely there have to be more like me…more survivors.

But there was only chilling quiet. Nothing was going on.

All of those people from the buildings—where are they? And those questions lingered in his mind from the minute he left the hospital to the time they finally reached Gramercy Park and Phil’s apartment. Where are all the people?

He sat in Phil’s living room.

Phil brought him water and turned on the TV when asked.

The picture came on of the South Tower: a peeling away of the structure; the gigantic fall of concrete and steel. Then there was Pasquale’s building, with the antenna on top, crumbling and melting. There was an almost loop-like video of planes heading straight and purposefully toward the buildings. All of it was so eerily calm, with the blue sky and that bright sunshine behind it—and those planes, flying straight and low and on purpose, becoming fireballs.

His Tower, the North Tower, had been the first hit, but the South Tower had been the first to fall. He’d thought that when the North Tower fell, it had toppled over. He imagined he’d survived because most of the building had fallen away from him. He wasn’t ready for the truth, for what that horrific footage would reveal.

It wasn’t a building falling over. They were two buildings disintegrating, with forces inside so great that the exterior shell, all concrete, peeled away like a banana. He sat there in awe, not understanding. It couldn’t have been possible for him to live through what he was watching. It’s just…not possible. He shook his head again and again. How could I have survived a twenty-story or more fall at that velocity? Twenty stories! How did I survive the remaining 90 or 100 floors of concrete, steel, wood, pipe, electricity, glass, furniture, appliances, fixtures, computers, mechanical equipment, and so on collapsing on top of me, somehow passing me by?

To a logical-thinking structural engineer, it didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t been found under the rubble, but on top of it, looking up at that blue sky. It was as if he’d been the last piece to fall. His parents had raised him Catholic, and he believed in God. He’d prayed at the time of what he thought would be his death. He’d never believed much in miracles, but the questions looming in his head couldn’t possibly be answered by logic of any sort. Quickly figuring the odds of his survival, given all the parameters, he came up with something akin to one in one billion. It was all so far beyond him, why he was still alive; it was simply too much to think about.

A plane had hit the Pentagon, in Washington DC. Another plane had gone down in a cornfield in Pennsylvania. He watched as the horrible pictures, the smoking wreckage, played over and over. His throat tightened with anger, and his hands clenched uncontrollably. There was nothing anyone could have done to protect their country from those heinous monsters, those cowards.

Yes, that’s what they are! COWARDS! What kind of animal must someone be to deliberately murder so many like this? Even animals don’t kill in such cowardly ways. He watched until he couldn’t bear to watch another minute. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be with his wife, with his family, with his friends. He wanted to be away from the horror.

“A friend of mine, Domenica, is waiting downstairs. She’s got a car,” Phil said, coming into the room and helping him up from the chair. “We’ll get you back to New Jersey somehow. The tunnels are shut down, and the George Washington will probably be jammed. We’ll head north, maybe take the Tappan Zee Bridge.”

It was 7:15 p.m., the evening of a very long day. It was time to leave the damaged city behind, time to figure out why he was still alive, to figure out a reason for any of what had happened to the world that fateful—and fatal—day.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Finally… Home

“Freedom itself was attacked this morning by a faceless coward,

and freedom will be defended.”

~ President George W. Bush

(September 11, 2001)

It wasn’t the same city anymore. It was early September, still high tourist season, but there was no noise, no hustling, no crowds. There was very little traffic. A few pedestrians ambled along the sidewalks, but they walked aimlessly. Pasquale watched out the car window with the unreal sense of watching refugees.

Domenica, Phil’s friend, had to work her way around and through blocked-off streets, taking any street that allowed passage. Every once in a while, they passed small gatherings of people, all of whom looked stunned. When their car passed, the confused hordes would turn and stare at them, almost as if they’d never seen a car before. Nobody bothered to hail a cab, and business meetings and dinner dates had lost their significance; the hustle and bustle that New York had always been known for seemed…pointless and halted. Pasquale had never seen New York like that, nor New Yorkers.

As they drove further uptown, they noticed fewer and fewer people along the walks and no children at all. At 7:00 p.m., those very same streets would usually have been filled with traffic, horns, and noise, but now they were eerily clear and silent.

They got over the Tappan Zee Bridge rather easily, as they were the only car. It was still daylight, but there was no traffic going anywhere. It reminded Pasquale of the times when he’d had to work late or had been out with friends and had ventured home in the middle of the night. There was no one on the road; the empty stretches of asphalt across the Tappan Zee Bridge were yet another eerie and bizarre part of the day.

He lay in the back of the car with his leg stretched across the seat. The pain wasn’t bad, as long as he didn’t have to put his weight on his injured foot. What was bad was the anticipation and the waiting. He needed to be home. What he needed most of all was to feel that something was normal somewhere, even if he could only find that in his own back yard.

Domenica turned at his street in River Vale. Cars were lined down both sides of the road and up into his driveway, with only enough space left for them to pull in. He bent to look out the window. It was all so every day: the big white colonial and the trees. People stood along the drive and on the porch. His heart began beating in a fierce rhythm, as if he were returning home after years away.

The car door opened, and Louise was there, leaning toward him, throwing her arms around him. She cried, and he followed suit. To feel her in his arms again—that wonderful, big belly—was beyond anything he’d ever felt in his life. Touching her hair, kissing her face, and feeling her skin against his was…Heaven. It was a step back into his life, yet somehow into a new life at the same time.

Brittany, their dog, leapt into the car, pushing Louise aside, licking his face relentlessly with her little pink terrier tongue. They laughed, and the sound was so familiar, but it was also impossible. He didn’t want to let Louise go as she backed out to make room for him to slide across the seat.

He got out and stood on his crutches, ready to face everyone. There were so many people there, so many faces wearing smiles and tears. People yelled things at him. It was real joy all around. Pasquale felt that, to be sure, but there was also something else. As if looking at his life through a haze of smoke, he saw where he’d come from, back in Manhattan. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to shake very quickly—not all of that.

“I love you,” he said to Louise, holding her close for just a minute more.

“I love you too,” she said, her small, lovely face turned up to him.

They stood there crying, leaning on one another. When he could walk, could hold his head up, could bear to let go of Louise, he wanted to see and touch everyone. He shoved the crutches up under his arms and got going, albeit at an awkward pace. Louise helped him, not wanting to trust that he could take care of himself just yet.

When he raised his head, he saw his father standing in the middle of the walk, a quiet, man, just waiting. Pasquale couldn’t remember the last time his father had hugged him. That hugging stuff is for women. Grown men should just know. But when his father came toward him, Pasquale limped forward. He saw the tears. He saw his father’s strong arms go wide, and in the next instant, they were around him. Pasquale bowed his head to his father’s, and the two stood there and hugged.

When Ugo stepped back, he grabbed Pasquale’s face and kissed him. “Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes still damp.

Pasquale nodded, unable to speak.

Then his mother’s arms were around him. Antonia held him, then pushed him back and looked hard at his face. “You eat anything? Come on. Come inside! I’ll make you something to eat.”

He could have burst with laughter. That was what a homecoming was about. She had to feed him, take care of him, to see that her little boy, all grown up, didn’t go hungry. As if all the rest didn’t matter, as if it had never happened, he was back to being cared for by his mother. Pasquale Buzzelli had crawled down from that Tower, and he was back with Louise, with his father and mother. Unbelievably and indescribably impossible, Pasquale was home.

His friend Nico stood on the walk in front of him. He’d taken the day off, the lucky guy. He looked directly at Pasquale, waiting for something.

Pasquale knew what it was that Nico was waiting for: news of Pat Hoey and Steve Fiorelli, their bosses and friends. He looked away from Nico at first, then took a breath and said, “Pat and Steve…I-I don’t think they made it.” How bad he felt having to say those words, but as he said them, he knew he was telling the truth. There had been no one around him. There’d been no one left. A deep sadness fell on both of them at the painful realization.

He made it into the house, to the family room and the green-checkered couch. The large TV was on. He sat back and watched for just a minute. It was all the same: planes, Towers, sky, fire; and then Pennsylvania and Washington DC.

Louise sat down beside him and took his hand. “I don’t think you should watch this, Pasquale.” Her face betrayed her worry.

She’s right, he thought. I shouldn’t watch. I’m home. I’m safe. Still, when he looked at her worried face, he felt she could melt away and leave him, and he would be back atop that pile of rubble with the fires coming closer. He turned back to the TV, almost unable to blink, as if he might miss something he had to see.

After that, everything became a blur. He ate whatever his mother put in his hands. He talked to people: Nara, Ralph’s wife, Mike, and so many supporters, loved ones, and friends. Among them were even Uncle Pio Buzzelli and Louise’s cousin Joanne, and Louise said there’d been so many more, coming and going all day.

His cousin Ralph hugged him. The big guy, like the brother he’d never had, even looked like Pasquale; he had the same blue eyes and dark hair and was about the same height. He stared hard into Pasquale’s face while Pasquale stared hard right back at him. “Glad to have you back, cuz. I knew you were gonna be all right.” Ralph’s face changed even while Pasquale was thanking him. A lot of anger boiled to the surface. “Those motherfuckers over in Journal Square were dancing in the street when the Towers fell. I’m surprised they got away with it without any fights breaking out. If I’d have been there and seen that, I don’t know if I could have kept going.” He shook his head.

Pasquale took in what he was being told: His fellow Americans—at least some of them—had the audacity to celebrate what had happened, to celebrate the deaths of people he knew, to celebrate the terrorists who had done it. For the first time, he wondered about his country. Who are these enemies we’ve allowed within our borders?

“Over in areas of Paterson too,” Ralph said.

What can I say to that? Pasquale shook his head. A man in control of himself doesn’t get mad, blow up, or scream at everyone. What good would that do? I must be strong. I will do that. I will not let myself feel too much. Still, anger spread through him like something red and boiling. For the first time that day, he became acquainted with pure and utter rage. If he could have killed right then, he would have. He would have become like them—like the plane-crashing murderers and the people who praised them. He felt it in his fists, in his arms. If I could beat someone for this…if I could just take somebody by the throat and tighten my fingers and make them pay… But he didn’t dare let himself think like that. He was home, safe with his family and friends, and he knew that was what he had to concentrate on.

“The phone’s been ringing off the hook all day. Dara called, and so did Patti. They were both in New York at work today. They didn’t want to leave till they heard back about you,” Ralph informed Pasquale. “Jill called, crying and hysterical. She was so worried.”

Jill had been Louise’s childhood friend since they were eight years old; the two were like sisters, but they hadn’t spoken in a while. Life seemed to have drifted them apart, like life does.

Pasquale looked at Ralph, a man who wanted to pilot helicopters. Ralph was a wheeler-dealer who could sell anybody anything, a fun-loving guy who raced remote-controlled cars and idolized Superman so much that he’d named his son Clark. Pasquale noticed something about Ralph: He wasn’t smiling and affable and fun-loving anymore.

The day had changed Bill too, a head mechanic at BMW and as much a friend to Pasquale as he was a cousin. Bill had a dark mustache and goatee, and people said it made him look like a cross between Bruce Willis and Billy Joel—a comparison he appreciated. “Hey, Brian just left,” Bill said, lifting his chin to Pasquale as he spoke of the tall Irishman from grammar school, the one they’d dubbed “The Fighting Irish.”

“He said to tell you that you always come out on top, smelling like a rose.”

There was so much happiness that Pasquale was home, but there was a lot of sadness that others hadn’t been as fortunate. He felt the confusion of happiness and anger and sadness mixing in his stomach. Fatigue and confusion made him feverish from something beyond anything he’d ever imagined. Yes, I’m home, but what of the others? Oh my God! What of all the people I worked with?

Pasquale looked around the room at his friends, at his parents, at Louise. They were all the same people he’d known, but they were different somehow, as if something had thrown a kind of veil over everything and everyone he’d known—a veil of impossibility that told him he shouldn’t have been there among them anymore. Nothing he believed in told him otherwise.

One by one, the faces of the people who’d gathered to greet him faded away, leaving, they said, to let him get some rest. He nodded, hugged, and maybe even smiled. He felt nothing. He was simply going through rites he’d learned as a child—of gratefulness, of sociability, of holding up his end of a friendship. A chorus of “Thank you” rang out in all directions, and there were answers to questions he couldn’t understand. They were fading—all of them.

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale was exhausted, more tired than he’d ever been in his life, but he couldn’t think of going to sleep. It wouldn’t be possible to make it up the long stairway to their bedroom, not on those crutches. The only place he could sleep was the couch in the family room.

“I’ll stay with you,” Louise offered, “in case you need anything.”

But he pushed her away, toward the stairs. She was pregnant, and there was no place for her to sleep comfortably downstairs. He knew she needed to be in bed. Sleeping had been hard enough for her over the last months, as their baby had grown.

After she reluctantly went, he realized it was the first time he’d been alone since being pulled from that burning pile of rubble. He lay down in the dark with his eyes wide open. Scenes flashed again and again in front of him: the flying debris; the darkness followed by the stillness; and the blue sky over his head. Things flew around him. He was there, but he could hold on to the sofa where he lay, clutching that green-checkered fabric, and bring himself back to his home. As if none of it had been real, he was there, not atop a burning pile of rubble. The smells were still in his nose, maybe embedded into his skin. Certainly it’s all in my head, he reasoned. If he shook himself violently for a minute, he could mix up the pictures. But then they settled, like the dust that had settled around him, and he had to see it all, over and over again. So many things crossed his mind—things he didn’t want to ever think about. Where are Pat and Steve and Lisa and Franco? Where are all the others? He could hear them, coming down the stairs behind him. He could hear their voices echoing in the stairwell. As if for the first time, he sensed the fear that had accompanied them down the stairs. Then he heard that screaming siren and saw the lightning-like blasts of that strobe light in his eyes.

Where did they all go? Where are my friends? Where is my world? What is buried beneath that horrible, terrible silence out there?

Pasquale Buzzelli, lying on his couch in the darkness all alone, began to cry. He tried to stop but couldn’t. He had never experienced that type of crying before. His return home had been like a funeral, like grieving, though it should have been a celebration of life. He’d been surrounded by family and friends. He had been consoled. Now that he was alone, though, all of that seemed different. He had choked back tears before, but this was a cry he couldn’t control. Rage poured out of him. There were pictures he couldn’t shake from his mind. There were questions and answers he didn’t want to face. My friends! My co-workers! Where are they? He couldn’t stop the tears. Pat? Steve? God, how many of them? Why just me? WHY JUST ME? God, why only me?!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I Survived…Now What?

“For once in my life, I could not think beyond that moment. I was always the type of person who thought ahead...What next? What will I need to do tomorrow, next week, and this year to provide for my family and to grow as a person? These plans and thoughts were absent from me, and all I could do was live in the past and what had happened and question why. Why me? Why did it happen?”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

He finally cried himself into a fitful but very welcome sleep, waking a couple times and struggling with his tortured mind to regain the sanctuary of blessed slumber. Questions assaulted his thoughts in every waking moment: Was that all a terrible nightmare? Did I just fall asleep on the couch? Did that actually happen? As much as he wanted it to have just been a horrible dream, the pain in his leg and his immobility would quickly remind him of what had happened, that it was all, in fact, all too real. He was actually alive, and he had really fallen twenty or so stories. Yes, a building had landed on top of him…but he was alive.

Pasquale awoke in the morning with a terrible headache, but he forgot about the throbbing annoyance as soon as he turned on the TV. Have they found anyone else? he wondered. What if I am the only one? Sixteen of us were together, trying to get out. How the hell could I be the only one who made it? There were so many people in that Tower. Why me? Why did I, of all people, get out? These thoughts began to consume him. He had turned on the TV hoping to hear that more survivors had been found, but that was not the case; all the reporters and journalists and rescuers had to report was the ever-increasing death toll.

Louise woke early and immediately went down to see Pasquale, to make sure he was really there, alive, and in their home. She had wanted to check on him throughout the night, but her pregnancy made it difficult to go up and down the stairs. She also had trouble getting in and out of bed, due to the constant aching and soreness that accompanied being seven-plus months pregnant. As she walked into the family room, she heard the television on. In a calm, soothing voice, she said to Pasquale, “I’m going to make some coffee. You want some?”

Pasquale was happy to see her, but at the same time, he was angry. He had always taken care of her during her pregnancy, and now she was having to care for him. “How are you, Nunu?” Pasquale asked. “Did you sleep okay? Here. Sit down. I’ll get up and make you breakfast” He motioned to her to sit as he attempted to stand, a nearly impossible feat since he could not support his weight on his damaged right leg, infuriating him all the more.

Louise poured water into the coffee maker while shooing Pasquale away. “No, no! Let me make coffee for my husband.” As soon as the words left her lips, she began feeling awkward and worried that he might think she was acting strangely. What the hell is wrong with you? You don’t talk like that. He is going to notice, she thought. Before he could say anything by way of an objection, Louise tried to change the subject. “Brittany refused to get out of bed. She must be worn out, the poor dog,” she said, shaking her head. After a moment, she thought he may have forgotten about her acting strangely and felt safe asking, “How did you sleep? Want me to make you some scrambled eggs and toast?” She grabbed a frying pan and started cracking eggs into it before she ventured, “How is your leg?”

“It still hurts, but I’ll be okay. The doctor at the ER said I should get an X-ray today, so—”

“Today?” Louise interrupted, all thoughts of keeping it casual leaving her mind. “Not today! You can’t go today!”

“Why not?” Pasquale asked, feigning naïveté, as if he didn’t know why she could not bear for him to leave the house.

“Because it’s raining, Pasquale! You will slip on those crutches and break your neck.”

“Louise, it’s just a little rain.”

“It’s a lot of rain, and you should not be walking on that leg anyway. You know what? Why don’t I call Dr. Volpecella and see if she’ll come over and take a look at you?”

Pasquale was about to tell her there was no way in hell he was going to allow his doctor to be inconvenienced for his sake, but then he saw the look in his wife’s eyes. He could see the apprehension on her face, and nothing else mattered to him but making her feel at ease. “Doctors don’t usually make house calls anymore,” Pasquale said quietly.

“Don’t worry about it. I will call her office and tell her what happened to you and see if she minds stopping by for a few minutes. I am sure she won’t care.”

Before Pasquale could protest, she picked up the phone and dialed the number. As soon as she told the doctor that Pasquale had been in the World Trade Center Towers the day before, Dr. Volpecella said she would be right over.

Louise felt she had to stay close to him. There were so many feelings going through her head, from the joy of being pregnant to the relief that her husband was still alive to the pain from knowing so many people had lost their lives. Wives had lost their husbands, children had lost their parents, and parents had lost their children...so many lives lost for no reason.

As much as she wanted to just be thankful she had her husband there with her, how could she feel joy when there was so much horror and sadness? Still, despite her feelings of guilt that she did not feel unadulterated joy at a time like that, there was no way she was going to let her husband go out and risk falling in the rain. It may not have been a completely rational fear, but when she remembered the pain of the previous day, being rational was not an option.

Within the hour, the doctor was on the Buzzellis’ doorstep.

Louise answered the door. “Hello, Dr. Volpecella. Thank you so much for coming over to check on Pasquale! I hope it isn’t too much trouble for you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” she responded. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the family room, on the couch. He won’t admit it, but I know he must be in a lot of pain. His leg is so swollen,” Louise told her before leading her to Pasquale.

“Thank you so much for coming here, Dr. Volpecella.” Pasquale tried to stand up to greet her.

“Don’t you dare get off of that couch until I’ve had a look at you,” the doctor admonished, wagging her finger at him. When he obediently sank back onto the couch, she smiled at him. “Now, tell me what happened here.”

“It’s my leg.” He pointed to it, and she sat down to examine it. They were silent for a moment before Pasquale said, “I don’t know how I made it through all that with just a broken leg.”

“Yes, you were so lucky to make it out of there before the building fell,” she said, checking his ankle for damage.

“He was in the Towers when they fell, Doctor,” Louise explained.

Dr. Volpecella said nothing for a second before it dawned on her. She sat straight up and looked at Louise. “What?!” she exclaimed. “He was in the building when it fell?”

Louise nodded, and the doctor looked back at Pasquale, flabbergasted.

He tried to avoid her eyes because he really did not want to talk about the previous day. Instead, he stared intently at the images on the television. Even now, after living through it, those horrible images and videos looked like something Hollywood had concocted, something out of a movie: the clear blue sky, the building standing tall, and then the plane coming in, so fast and yet so slow at the same time.

“So, Doctor, how is his leg?” Louise asked after a few seconds.

“What?” the doctor asked as she snapped out of a trance. Still staring at Pasquale, she went on, “Oh yes, his leg. It should be okay. He should definitely get an X-ray but there doesn’t seem to be too much damage. Now tell me, Pasquale, how the hell did you come out of that building alive?”

Pasquale could barely stop himself from sighing before he began to tell her exactly what had happened to him barely twenty-four hours earlier. She listened intently, alternating between shocked gasps and head shakes as he told her everything he could remember. They talked for a little while longer before Dr. Volpecella had to leave.

Before the doctor had even reached the door, Pasquale’s eyes snapped back to the TV. Though he knew it would do him more harm than good, he could not stop himself from watching the planes flying into the buildings. Over and over he watched, hypnotized by the horror as he stared at the destruction of the Twin Towers and saw all those people trying to race the clouds of choking smoke. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not pull himself away from it. He could not relate to the sights and sounds on the TV, but he had the banged-up leg, burns, and bruises to prove to himself he had been there. Things like this don’t happen in real life, he thought, or at least they didn’t…until yesterday. He watched it all over and over. He felt his heart beating rapidly and pounding in his chest, yet he was compelled to keep watching, all the while wondering if they would find more survivors, thinking, Did any of my co-workers make it out alive?

After a while, the doorbell rang, interrupting these thoughts. Louise hurried to answer the door once more. She opened it to see Antonia standing there, with a casserole dish in her hands. Ugo was beside her, loaded down with Tupperware full of pasta, chicken cutlets, and salad.

“How are you, Louise?” Antonia asked, putting her hand on Louise’s belly. “You are strong, yes? How’s la babe?”

“Yes, I am fine, Mama Buzzelli. Come in.”

“Good, good. Now where is Patsy?” Antonia asked before she stepped through the doorway.

Louise knew the question was rhetorical, so she asked Ugo if she could help him carry anything.

“No, no, Louise.” He shook his head at her. “You go sit down and relax.” He made his way into the house and said hello to Pasquale before putting the food down in the kitchen. After he did so, he hugged Pasquale and sat down next to him.

Father and son made small talk while Antonia took control of the situation. She bustled around her son’s house as comfortably as she would have her own kitchen, grabbing plates and silverware so she could make sure her son and his pregnant wife would be stuffed to the point of discomfort.

Pasquale felt like his stomach might explode if he ate another bite, and before his mother could set yet another plate of pasta in front of him, he mentioned that he needed to go to the hospital for an X-ray.

Because a steady rain continued with no sign of stopping, Louise once again protested. She did not want him going out, but when Ugo offered to help him, she could not object. If anyone could keep Pasquale safe and return him to her, she knew it was his father.

~ ♦ ~

They drove through the rain-wet streets to the hospital. When they entered the emergency room, they were surprised to find that it was quiet. It was quite eerie, and Pasquale felt pangs of guilt once more as his eyes took in what appeared to be a repeat of the scene at St. Vincent’s the day before. Doctors and nurses, all very calm, bustled around, but they basically ignored Pasquale.

When they finally asked him what was wrong, Pasquale began, “I was in Tower One when it came down, and the ER doctor I saw told me I should come back and get checked out.” As the words left his mouth, even he could not believe them. When the doctor pressed him for more information, he went on to describe his injuries and how he’d sustained them, telling his story while the televisions posted around the emergency room recounted the events of the previous day. He told his story once again, only half-concentrating on it when those repeated scenes of destruction caught his eyes once more.

Eventually, the doctor came back with no information beyond what Pasquale already knew: “Put no pressure on that foot for eight weeks.”

What a useless trip this was, Pasquale thought. It made him angry that he’d had to recall and repeat, yet again, the events of the worst day of his life, only to hear advice he’d already been given.

Luckily, some of Pasquale’s family had arrived at their home while he was wasting his time at the hospital, giving him a respite from his depressing thoughts. His Aunt Mima and Uncle Tony were there, and he’d just missed his Aunt and Godmother Anna, who’d driven all the way up from Hoboken with the priest from the parish to see him. Those who were still there hugged and kissed him, holding on to him as if they felt they had to touch him, to make sure he was real.

But despite the evidence to the contrary, Pasquale Buzzelli certainly did not feel real, and he was frightened he would never feel real again.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

You Reap What You Sew

“Live life in a way your kids will want to imitate.”

~ Josh DiCarlo,

Character Technical Director at Sony Pictures Imageworks

For the next few days, people filtered in and out of the Buzzellis’ home in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings. Adding to the commotion was the constant ringing of the phone. Though the couple appreciated the concern and the well-wishes of everyone they knew (and even some they’d never met), the phone never ceased its ringing. Eventually, it became impossible to keep up with the outpour of affection, so rather than answering every call, Louise recorded an outgoing message, apologizing that they could not get to the phone due to hers and her husband’s conditions.

While, the Buzzellis appreciated the concern, at the same time, it unnerved Pasquale. He was not used to being the center of attention. Despite his discomfort, he seemed to be hugging and kissing people all the time, though he still could not help but to look past them to the TV whenever possible. He quickly grew tired of answering the same questions over and over again. He realized that people expected him to act a certain way and to say certain things. He played the part well enough that he eventually became resigned to the fact that he would have to continue the act indefinitely. He could not tell anyone about the terrible rage growing in him, just as he could not tell them about his deep yearning, his constant urge to kill the perpetrators of those foul deeds that had changed not only his life, but the whole country. There were other feelings too—worse, nameless, dark feelings…thoughts that he tried to hide, even from himself.

It was not just these internal thoughts Pasquale had to try to ignore. Large, rumbling sounds such as garbage trucks or hefty commercial vehicles going past the house, or even thunder while he sat watching TV, startled him something awful, causing flashbacks that jolted him to those final moments in the stairwell as Tower One collapsed. It was difficult enough for him to deal with those vile reminisces that came in painful, vivid detail, but what was even worse was the worry that someone else might notice his strange reactions to everyday things and make a comment about his odd behavior. He learned that he had to try to anticipate noises so he wouldn’t appear to be affected by them. That meant he always had to be at a heightened sense of awareness to hide any physical response. He may have been able to trick those around him, but he couldn’t trick himself; inside, he still always felt the jolt.

Louise, trying her best to be a comfort to the husband she had almost lost forever, lingered ever close to him. Though she had not been in that Tower with him, she knew the strains he had to be feeling. Though she was filled with joy that her husband was alive and with her, she tried not to overdo it when expressing her gratitude. Even still, there were many times when she couldn’t look at Pasquale without crying. She simply could not control those feelings.

For his part, Pasquale pretended with her, doing his best to hide the growing anxiety he was feeling. He tried to shut the horror from his mind by remembering his childhood.

~ ♦ ~

Though he was their only son, he had not been spoiled by his parents. His mother and father knew what it was to work hard, and they did their best to instill that admirable work ethic in Pasquale, the one they’d learned when they were young. They refused to fall into the trap of spoiling their child as they had noticed some Americans did. The couple had traveled to America as immigrants, and though they wanted a better life for Pasquale, they also wanted him to be aware that life would not hand him anything. He would have to work for what he wanted and needed…and work hard for it.

Like many children born to immigrant parents, Pasquale had to learn the values of hard work from a very young age. Nevertheless, his childhood teemed with countless memories of fun times shared with his friends and loved ones. Even though Pasquale was an only child, he rarely did anything alone. Whether he was running around the streets of Jersey City with his friends and cousins playing stickball and tag or spending Sunday afternoons with his aunts and uncles, Pasquale rarely had time to feel alone, and he most certainly never felt unloved.

Taught to be independent, from the time he was ten, Pasquale would come home, let himself in the house, then dump his school things at home before rushing right back out the door to find his cousin, Ralph Molfetta, to join him for an adventure. Ralph’s home life was a bit different than Pasquale’s. His family was large, and he was one of five siblings, with three brothers and one sister. Pasquale’s parents were in no way wealthy, but they could afford to buy their only child something that he really wanted.

When Pasquale was eleven, his mother and father, Antonia and Ugo, surprised him with a ten-speed bicycle. He was thrilled with his new gift, but even at that early age, he had begun to show signs of the generous spirit within him, something he would carry with him throughout his life. When he rode his new bike over to Ralph’s house to show him, he immediately began to feel bad. There he was, flaunting his new toy, when Ralph did not have a bike of his own. Not wanting to be the only one having so much fun, and caring a great deal about his cousin and friend, Pasquale devised a plan.

Over the next few weeks, Pasquale and Ralph spent their time going around town and finding whatever parts they could to build Ralph a bike of his own, be it an old piece of chain, a discarded set of handlebars, or a seat that no one wanted to sit on anymore. Being young boys who were no strangers to occasional mischief, whatever they could not find, they stole. They eventually gathered all they needed, and Ralph was able to join Pasquale on wheels. Being mobile allowed them to get into even more trouble, but they never did anything more felonious than sneaking into movie theaters with bags of popcorn they managed to lift off the cart that delivered them to the back alley.

When Pasquale was a freshman in high school, he was waiting about two blocks from his school for the bus to come and take him home. As he waited with his good friend Harry, he noticed a gang of neighborhood boys watching him from a distance. Pasquale had learned at a very young age to keep careful track of his surroundings. Growing up in Jersey City required a certain level of street smarts, so when Pasquale noticed them eying him, he was sure they were after something that was very important to him, his sacred chain.

When Pasquale was baptized as a baby, his grandmother, Elizabeth Buzzelli, and his godmother, Aunt Anna, had given that gold chain to him. Hanging from the chain was a pendant—a heart, anchor, and cross—and those symbols stood for Hope, Faith, and Charity. Though Pasquale was not an overly religious person, he had always cherished that special gift from his family and would not let any harm come to it. He adored it so much that he would literally fight for it.

When the bus pulled to a stop, Pasquale waited as Harry and some of the smaller boys boarded it. Knowing that a scuffle could break out at any moment, he closed his hand around the chain as he stepped into the line to get on the bus. A split second later, he was struck in the side of the face: One of the boys has sucker-punched him from behind. When the boy’s fist collided with Pasquale’s face, another boy reached out to grab his chain. Pasquale felt the chain break when another fist hit his eye. He felt pain, but it was not his concern; his only thought in that moment was to save the gift he’d carried with him all his life, his precious chain. “Fucking asshole!” Pasquale yelled as he swung and felt his fist connect with one of his assailants. “Get off my chain!”

“Get him! Get his chain, guys!” he heard one of the boys yell.

“You boys stop your fighting!” Pasquale heard the bus driver yell as he struggled against his attackers. “Come on, son! Climb up and get on in here!”

Pasquale may have gotten angry at the bus driver for just sitting there and yelling as he fought against the gang of boys, but at that moment, he was far too focused on getting his chain back. After a moment, the boys took off running. Winded and bruised, Pasquale turned to give chase.

“Pasquale, get on the bus, man! There are too many of them!” Harry yelled.

“I can’t, Harry! They took my chain!”

“No they didn’t. Look!” Harry pointed to Pasquale’s chest.

Pasquale looked down and saw that the chain there, clinging to his shirt, as if it were holding on for dear life. Pasquale was elated to see his beloved jewelry dangling there. As much as he wanted revenge against the gang who had attacked him, he decided that as long as they had not gotten his chain, it was not worth it. He settled instead for climbing aboard and giving them the finger as the bus rolled passed them.

When Pasquale passed his twelfth birthday, his parents decided he was old enough to learn that making money and having success in life required hard, honest work. So, at thirteen, he began employment in one of the few lines of work they, themselves, were familiar with: working in a clothing manufacturing shop. Every day after school, he had to go straight to work for a couple of hours in that sweatshop, and he worked all day on Saturdays. During the summer months, he worked forty to sixty hours a week, but he was paid less than minimum wage; it was a sweatshop indeed.

Although this may sound like a punishment to some, it was in no way meant as one. On the contrary, it was the only way hardworking Antonia and Ugo knew to teach their boy the valuable life lessons they knew he had to learn. Pasquale’s experience working in the sweatshop from a young age and then, later in his life, in construction with his father, provided him with many valuable lessons—not the least of which, how important it is to stay in school and get a degree to achieve higher aspirations. His parents knew that, and they knew if he worked as they had in order to provide, he would realize the importance of a degree that would allow him to escape a life filled with manual labor, a chance and a choice they never had as immigrants.

They loved the United States of America and the opportunities it afforded them, but they knew it would give their son even more, as long as they taught him the lessons he needed to learn to take advantage of those opportunities. Pasquale knew it was his duty as a good son to work hard and maintain his grades. He worked many hard jobs following his time at the sweatshop, and he took each duty seriously.

Eventually, his diligence and strong work ethic paid off. Having managed exemplary grades in school, he was rewarded a full academic scholarship to Cooper Union, a very prestigious engineering school. He received offers from other schools, but before he had to make a decision, one was made for him. When Pasquale wrecked the car his parents had struggled and saved to buy for him just weeks earlier, he decided he could not possibly ask them to pay for his tuition elsewhere. So, he chose the free ride. Luckily for him, it turned out to be the right decision, and he never regretted it. From that day on, a new way of life was open to him.

~ ♦ ~

As Pasquale thought back on all of those memories from his youth, it somehow still always came back to that day: September 11, 2001. It was like a sickness that pervaded his every thought, every moment, and every memory. No matter what he did, they all connected to that day. Even now, as he sat, holding on to the chain he still wore around his neck, he could not help but remember how close he had come to losing it just days before the 9/11 attacks.

On September 9, 2001, Pasquale was working in the basement of his home. He was moving some boxes around when he felt the chain fall from his neck. For no reason that he could find, the clasp broke, and the chain fell to the floor—the first time it had left his neck since the gang from his neighborhood had tried to steal it from him.

He was very upset that his most treasured possession was broken. He went upstairs and did his best to fix it with some wire. Evidently, the repairs he made were sound, because he wore the chain on the morning of the attacks on the Twin Towers. Somehow, as the building collapsed on top of him, that repaired chain managed to hold fast. It did not break away as he tumbled through the air, only to land twenty stories below. Much like he did, somehow that chain held strong, and it was still there when he awoke hours later to see nothing but blue skies.

He could not help but think, to wonder, Was that a sign? Was someone out there trying to warn me? Was it Nonna Buzzelli, who loved me so much, protecting me? Maybe she put in a good word for me up there. Inevitably, such thoughts led to more agonizing self-hatred. What have I done in this lifetime that I should be chosen to survive? What makes me so special that I get to live and thousands had to perish? Try as he did, Pasquale could find no answer. Maybe I did something as a little boy, something so good that I was spared. Or am I just lucky? But what about my co-workers, my friends? They were better people than me, and they had people who loved them just as much as my wife and family love me. So why them? Why not me? He hoped and prayed that something would distract him from those bitter, stinging questions, but unfortunately he found himself alone once more when his mother, Aunt Mima, and Louise left for a candlelight memorial at their church.

A few moments after Mama Buzzelli had warned Louise and Aunt Mima that they would be late if they did not hurry out the door, he sat once again, alone on his couch, and watched people being interviewed on TV: wives, mothers, sons, and fathers. Some were holding pictures of the loved ones they were searching for. As he watched, an overwhelming feeling of guilt struck him. For some incomprehensible reason, Pasquale felt remorse, as if he should have died instead of being lucky enough to get out of that huge pile of debris that so many others had not escaped from. Surely I could not have been the only one. Surely some others survived the way I did. He knew that, but the guilt still overwhelmed him as he sat on that couch, completely alone again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mourning Zoo Radio

“The phone call to the show and speaking to the woman began to make my heart race again, and I would start to breathe heavily. I did not know at the time, but I was experiencing anxiety. My head would hurt after the phone conversation because of the need to force myself to help those people and provide any assistance I could, even though I wanted to avoid all conversation of what reminded me of the event.”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

In the days that followed, Pasquale was contacted to be interviewed on the Scott and Todd Show on the radio. His initial instinct was to turn them down, as he had no desire to relive the horrors he’d faced just a couple of days earlier. He had already been asked countless times to recount his story, sometimes to complete strangers. He never declined talking to the families of the victims, but he had no desire to talk to the media. Unfortunately, the media were determined to talk to him, and they wanted his story. Though he’d been introduced to the Scott and Todd Show by a friend, he was apprehensive of talking to them on live radio. After some consideration, he decided it best to talk with Louise. “Louise, I just…I don’t feel like talking about this,” he said.

“Pasquale, are you kidding me?” Louise exclaimed. “People need to hear this! People need to hear of a miracle! They need to know what you went through.”

“I don’t know, Nu.” Pasquale sighed. “I just don’t see the point.”

“I know, Nunu, but you gotta tell them. Your story is so important for the world to know.” Louise could not help but be proud of her husband, and though she would not admit it to him, she wanted to show the world just how special he was.

Seeing his wife’s enthusiasm was all he needed to convince him. Inside though, he still did not want to do it, so he subconsciously decided he would not put his heart into it. Instead, he would talk to Scott and Todd from the comfort of his bed. Getting excited to talk about that day was not a possibility for him, so getting out of bed as if it were some opportunity he was eager to experience had no appeal to him. So, Pasquale did just that. He told his story from the comfort of his very safe bed. This time was different, however, because rather than telling friends and family, he was telling countless strangers. He knew soon into the interview that his initial impulse was right, and he would have been much happier had he not agreed to go through with it.

After the interview was over, a woman called into the Scott and Todd Show, begging for information. They listened to her story and decided to call Pasquale to see if he would talk to her.

Despite his reluctance, he knew she was a victim of the cowards who had brought those buildings down, so he agreed to talk with her, albeit privately.

“Hello, Pasquale. My name is Maritza,” she said.

Right away, Pasquale felt a pit in his stomach. He could hear the desperation in her voice, even though she was trying to conceal it.

“I was just wondering what floor you worked on.”

Pasquale hesitated just a second, knowing where the conversation was going even before he answered. “I work...worked on the sixty-fourth floor.”

“Oh. I just...well, they have not found my sister, and I thought you might know her.”

At that point, Pasquale was sure he should not have agreed to do the radio interview. He felt ashamed that he had spoken about his own miracle when so many others were desperately searching—or worse, grieving—for their own loved ones who’d last been seen in the Towers. He gave her the names of the people he’d worked with and then listened as she described her sister. He was almost certain he did not know the woman, but when Maritza gave Pasquale her sister’s name there was no doubt left. Pasquale knew he had worked nowhere near her. “Miss, I am so sorry,” Pasquale said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I did not know your sister, but I do know people who worked on that same floor, and they got out alive.”

They continued talking for a few moments. He did his best to console her, but he knew he was helpless to do so. Still, he tried his best to give her answers that even he, himself, didn’t have. Though he felt terrible for her, speaking to that woman made him incredibly uncomfortable, and throughout their conversation, he felt tightness in his chest. His heart began to race and, no matter how hard he tried, he could not catch his breath. It was at that point that Pasquale realized the truth about the position he was in. Just speaking on the phone with that woman and his vain attempt to help her sent him spiraling into a full panic attack. The anxiety he felt overwhelmed him and caused a severe headache.

In spite of his own pain, inside and out, he wanted so badly to help her and everyone like her. He knew how close he had come to joining Maritza’s sister in that cruel fate. It terrified him even more to think how close Louise had come to being just like that woman, desperately searching for her loved one. He wanted to help, but it hurt him so deeply to relive that day that he did not know if he could stand it.

Not long after the Scott and Todd Show, the Help Me Howard television show on Channel 11 WPIX contacted Pasquale. Like so many others in the answer-hungry media, they wanted to hear his story. He agreed to do the interview, despite his desire not to. He was told countless times that his was a story of hope and that people needed to hear what he and Louise had to say about the events of that day and his survival through it. He could not understand their reasoning. Hope? How can anyone have hope at a time like this? Their loved ones are dead. How does me talking about surviving help to give them hope?

~ ♦ ~

Howard Thompson played college football at Syracuse University, but after suffering from multiple concussions, he decided to choose another career path. He transferred to Emerson College and received a journalism degree in 1981. He began doing the Help Me Howard show in 1995 and, through investigative journalism, sought to help those who could not help themselves. He hoped to make a difference by telling their stories.

In spite of his initial reluctance to deal with the press yet again, Pasquale was impressed by the professionalism and kindness that Howard showed throughout the interview. This stood out so much to Pasquale that when he later looked back on that interview, he decided it was the best one he’d ever done. Even that interview was not without incident though, and that only confirmed Pasquale’s initial thoughts: There is no point in doing interviews.

After the interview was finished, Pasquale was told it would air on a Thursday. However, when all of Pasquale’s friends and family gathered around the television to watch his first-ever TV appearance, they were disappointed when it didn’t air as scheduled. This left Pasquale feeling frustrated. He hated talking about 9/11, so when he conceded and did so in vain, only for them to later cut the segment that was so difficult for him, he could not help but feel bitter and worried that now people would think he was a liar.

The interview eventually aired the following week, delayed only because Pasquale’s story was deemed just too unbelievable, so the network would not show it until they verified every detail with the FDNY. Because of the insanity that was going on in New York at the time, the Fire Department was understandably slow in verifying the details.

His instinct was to avoid everything that would remind him of what had happened to him just a couple of days before, but he realized that he was not the only one suffering. Those planes may have hit the Twin Towers, but they had blown a hole straight through the heart of all Americans. For that reason, Pasquale felt a strange obligation—a burden he hadn’t asked for.

How can I think about my own pain when I know others were not as lucky as I am? he thought. How can I possibly give in to my own pain that comes from surviving when others are feeling the pain that comes with such a great loss? He was at war with himself, and a heart-wrenching conflict raged inside of him. Save myself from the pain or help others deal with their own? The two feelings began tearing him apart.

It had been such a short time since the buildings fell, but at the same time, it felt like a lifetime had passed. He was no longer the Pasquale from September 10, 2001, just as the world was no longer the same as it had been that day. These thoughts ate him from the inside out, but still, he felt he had to present a smiling face to those around him. They needed to see him as the same old smiling Pasquale. How can I deny them that, he tortured himself, when their loved ones were ripped from them by those horrible terrorists?

Inside, he felt a burning. A fire was raging, and his desire for revenge began consuming him. He hated those terrorists, and he wanted them to pay. They had destroyed the Twin Towers, and he wanted nothing more than to destroy them. Try as he might to avoid the thoughts of ripping their heads from their worthless bodies, they still pervaded his mind, and this hatred monopolized his feelings. As Pasquale thought of this, he glanced at the television and saw the President of the United States of America; he immediately sat up to pay attention.

As he watched George W. Bush at Ground Zero, he felt his spirit swell with pride. The President of the United States, the leader of the free world, not dressed in a suit or trying to give off an air of pomp or self-importance; instead, he was dressed casually, in street clothes. He did not stand on some podium or try to place himself above the fray; instead, he stood in the middle of hell, with his arm around a fire-fighter.

The fire-fighter was an older man; he had a veteran look to him, as if he’d seen it all. He wore a hardhat with the numbers 164 written on it and had a gas mask dangling from his neck. President Bush stood with him like he was an old friend, hugging him as he made what would become known as “the Bullhorn Speech”:[1]

President Bush: Thank you all. I want you all to know—it [the bullhorn] can’t go any louder—I want you all to know that America today…America today is on bended knee, in prayer for the people whose lives were lost here, for the workers who work here, for the families who mourn. The nation stands with the good people of New York City and New Jersey and Connecticut as we mourn the loss of thousands of our citizens.

Rescue Worker: I can’t hear you!

President Bush: I can hear you! I can hear you! The rest of the world hears you! And the people…and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon!

Rescue Workers: [Chanting] USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!

President Bush: The nation…the nation sends its love and compassion…

Rescue Worker: God bless America!

President Bush: …to everybody who is here. Thank you for your hard work. Thank you for makin’ the nation proud, and may God bless America.

Rescue Workers: [Chanting] USA! USA! USA! USA! 

CHAPTER TWENTY

Funeral for a Friend

“Pat and Steve had been at the end of the line, as the group had made its way down the stairs in Tower One. Pat was a good man, a solid family man, and I had the utmost respect for him. I admired his love of life. His motto had been ‘Celebrate each day and work hard and play hard.’ His family came first, though you could see the passion he had for his work. He found time for both in his life. He proved it is possible to truly love your work as a public servant and also afford the time to celebrate and enjoy your family. Steve was also a great man. He and I always talked about family, cooking, and sports. He was the kind of person you could trust and put faith in. You always knew where you stood with him. He had a special way of making you feel comfortable because he had a general calmness about him.”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

As the days passed and turned to weeks, Pasquale hoped things would get easier; however, they did not. Several weeks after the experience on the Scott and Todd Show, Pasquale received a phone call from his good friend Nico.

“Hey, Pasquale. I am sorry to call you so early,” Nico began, then hesitated a moment. “They found Pat’s and Steve’s bodies—”

“My God,” Pasquale uttered before he could stop the words from escaping his mouth.

“I know. I feel awful about it, but at least the bodies are pretty much intact.”

“Their families...Terry and Eileen…the kids…” Pasquale said, trying his best to keep his voice strong. “At least they can give them a proper burial.” Pasquale hung up with Nico and began to pray that Pat’s and Steve’s families would be able to find some peace now that they could say a proper goodbye.

As odd as it seemed, Pasquale was relieved for those families. He knew the what-ifs had to be worse than knowing. After his initial relief that the families had some sort of closure, his thoughts strayed to the countless victims who had not received any kind of conclusion. My friends, murdered by fucking cowards! he thought. These thoughts kept eating at him. He tried to take comfort in the hope that maybe the victims had not suffered. He hoped they had been knocked unconscious in the fall and that since they’d been found, as Nico put it, “pretty much intact,” he hoped they had felt no pain. But that brought him only the slightest of comforts.

A few hours later, the phone rang. Pasquale hoped it would give him a break from the anger that was consuming him, but it did not.

“Hey, Pasquale. It’s Nico. Sorry to call again. Steve’s funeral will be held on Thursday. Can you make it?”

“Of course!” Pasquale responded without hesitation. “There’s no way I’d miss it.”

“Are you sure, man?” Nico asked. “No one would blame you if you need to sit this one out.”

Pasquale knew his friend was only thinking of his best interests, but he also knew he wanted to be there—he had to. “Nico, I am NOT going to miss this. I won’t lie. It will be hard for me, but I have to pay my respects to Steve’s family. It is all I can do for them.”

“Thanks, Pasquale. It will mean a lot to them, especially to Terry,” Nico said before saying goodbye.

There was so much more that Pasquale wanted to say to Nico, but he could not let his guard down. He wanted to tell him that it would be beyond hard—that it would be torture for him to look those people in the eye. The thought of looking at them and seeing the pain he felt inside displayed on their faces terrified him, but what scared him even more was knowing they would ask the same question he’d been asking himself since that day.” Why you and not them, Pasquale? Why are you still here, when they are not?” They would ask the question with their eyes, if not their words. Why me? he asked himself, trying to think of what he could possibly say for an answer.

He could not help but think they would look at him, standing there alive, with just some bruises, while their loved one was lying in a casket. He worried that they would resent him. It doesn’t matter if I am scared of their judgment. If can’t blame them for resenting me, if they do. They should be allowed to feel whatever the hell they want after the shit that happened. If I could do anything to change what happened or bring them all back I would…I’d do anything.

~ ♦ ~

Though he’d hoped the day would not come so fast, it was there in a flash. It seemed like it was no time at all between Nico’s call days earlier and his arrival on Pasquale’s doorstep, wheelchair in tow. “What the hell is that, Nico?”

“Your leg, man. You shouldn’t be putting weight on that thing. I thought it might help you so you don’t have to stand around on crutches. The place is going to be packed.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Pasquale knew Nico was right, so he allowed Nico to help him out of the car and into the wheelchair when they finally arrived at the church. It made him terribly uncomfortable, and though he knew he was much too big to hide, he tried to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, hoping not to attract any unwanted attention—any attention, for that matter.

Nico had told him over and over again how much people wanted to see him, but Pasquale knew it was not the time or the place for social calls and congratulations on his survival. Rather, it was a time for remembering a great man who’d been jerked from the Earth, stolen from his family and his life much too early by a group of cowards carrying out a cowardly act. Now was the time to pay his respects to a friend and to do his best to console that man’s grieving family.

Nevertheless, despite Pasquale’s wishes and his valiant attempts to remain invisible, people immediately began flocking toward him the moment they saw him being pushed toward the church. Though it was the last thing he wanted, he had no choice. He had to field a flurry of questions about him and how he was doing, while Steve lay in a casket not far away. He did his best to keep his responses positive, but after so many hugs and kisses, he could barely hold back his emotions; tears began to surface. After a few moments, he signaled to Nico that it was time to go inside.

As they entered the church, he was not surprised, but humbled to see the vast number of people gathered to celebrate one man. It made him feel proud of Steve, proud to have known the man. As he looked around at the bereaved and the mourners, he realized just how many people his friend had touched. He made his way to the back of the church and fought hard to control himself. It was difficult to keep from weeping uncontrollably.

He could not help but think that it could have easily been his funeral. He thought of Steve’s wife, Terry, and their children; he pondered their unfathomable grief. He knew how close his family had come to the same fate, how easily his beautiful Louise and his own mother and father could have been the ones weeping in the front. Images of that tragic day came back to him, and he remembered conversations he’d had with Steve. These thoughts and many other what-ifs pervaded Pasquale’s mind; even in that sacred place, in the safety of that old church, those thoughts made it impossible for him to find sanctuary.

As much as he hated himself for thinking that way, he knew he could attend no more funerals. The days that followed brought many more as more bodies were found. There were countless phone calls, all inviting him and expecting him to be there for the memorials of the countless fallen he’d been acquainted with, but he felt he could not. Instead, he sat at home, knowing that the funerals were well attended by others. He sat alone, wracked with guilt and beating himself up.

He had been asked to attend, but he just could not face them, the widows, the friendless, the siblings, the now-fatherless or motherless children, and the now-childless parents—all those people who knew he had been spared instead of their husband or son or daughter or friend. So many were put in the ground or into urns far before their time, and so many tissues were filled with the tears of those left behind. And, knowing this, Pasquale Buzzelli’s nightmares truly began…

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Back to Work

“I remember telling Terry, Eileen and Linda that if it means anything, I did not think Pat, Steve, or Franco suffered. I told them it happened so quickly that they did not suffer.

I could feel my throat closing and the water building up in my eyes as I told them. I started to cry…”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

When November came, Pasquale decided he could not stay home watching 9/11 footage on TV any longer. He had not been to work since 9/11, but he decided it was time to return. He enjoyed his job and his co-workers, and he hoped returning to work, at least part time, would be enough of a distraction that he could start moving past that day. Pasquale had always been a planner, a man of routines, and he hoped getting back to those routines would help him calm the beast that was raging inside of him. So, with his leg mostly healed and nothing but scars remaining, he went back to work.

Nico picked Pasquale up in the morning, and they rode to work together. It was not a long drive, but Pasquale had plenty of time to worry about how his friends would receive him. They had lost such great people in the attacks, and as ridiculous as it seemed to anyone else, Pasquale worried they might resent him for not being one of them.

“How are you feeling about this?” Nico asked him.

“I feel good, Nico. I am ready to get back into the swing of things,” he lied.

“That’s good,” Nico said as he patted Pasquale on the back. “I know everyone there is excited that you’re coming back. We’ve missed you around the office, man.”

“Thanks. I’ve missed everyone too. It’ll be nice to see them and catch up on things. I’m a little nervous about it, but I think it will be a good thing to get back to real life,” Pasquale said. To say he was a little nervous would be quite the understatement. He was terrified of seeing the faces of everyone who knew he had lived in lieu of someone else. He did not want to worry Nico, though, so he kept those thoughts to himself.

~ ♦ ~

After the Twin Towers fell, the Port Authority, Pasquale’s employer, was left homeless. While they were waiting to figure out a permanent residence, they settled into a makeshift office in Journal Square, New Jersey. When Pasquale entered the building, the first thing he noticed was how improvised and do-it-yourself everything seemed. Instead of their normal offices filled with desks and cubicles, they had to settle for folding chairs around rows of desks that had been pushed together to form some semblance of tables and workspaces.

Because he and Nico arrived later in the morning, Pasquale was unable to sneak in discretely, as he would have preferred. Instead, he walked into a room full of people whom he was scared to face. When he entered the room, all heads turned, and he felt every pair of eyes boring into him. He held his breath for what seemed like an eternity as he stood there on his crutches, waiting for someone to say something. But then, Pasquale received a tremendous shock: Every one of them stood up from their desks...and began applauding him.

As touching as the outpour of emotion toward him was, he felt it was undeserved. As he looked around and saw the smiling faces and the tears in just about every eye, a lump formed in his throat, and he struggled in vain to stop his own tears from flowing. How can they look at me and applaud? he thought. Don’t they know there is no reason for me to be standing here instead of Pat, Steve, or Franco? This is too much. I should not be here...

As he stood there, taunted by those doubts and thoughts, his friends began flocking toward him. Some of them just wanted to shake his hand, while others hugged him, as if they needed to touch him to confirm that what they were seeing was, in fact, real—not just another ghost haunting them from that day.

“How are you, Pasquale?” someone asked him. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I am okay, I guess,” he responded automatically.

“Are you sure? How is your leg holding up?”

“Yeah, I am fine, really. My leg is a little sore, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“That is so great! Wow! I cannot believe you’re really here!”

Everyone he passed seemed to have the same questions for him, and without even really thinking, he somewhat robotically answered them all the same way. He did not want that kind of attention. He did not resent those who gave it to him, but truly, he just wished there was a way he could just be another anonymous face in the crowd—an invisible man rather than a symbol for hope after all that had happened that day. He could not escape being “the survivor,” no matter how hard he tried.

After the commotion died down, Nico led Pasquale through the crowd and to his desk. “Here ya go, man. You got everything you need?”

“Yeah, Nico. Thanks,” he said as Pasquale sat down and tried to find a place to hide his crutches.

Someone brought him a cup of coffee, and after he thanked them, he got to work. If I just put my nose down and work, maybe the attention will go away, he hoped. Every so often, he looked around and noticed people looking in his direction. Some were whispering to each other, and he could only imagine what they were thinking. Oh God. I just hope they are not talking about me. I hope they know I miss those guys just as much as they do.

It was not an easy day, to be sure, but as the hours ticked by, Pasquale started to settle in. He found some solace in his duties and began to feel comfortable around his friends and co-workers, and even his paranoia about them judging him began to recede. He looked around at the stacks of papers and drawings laid out on the office tables. There was something soothing about it. Though it was just a thrown-together attempt at an office, it offered a welcome return to normalcy for him, something he’d been searching for since he’d awoken atop of the rubble and seen that big blue sky.

~ ♦ ~

For the first couple of weeks, after that initial awkward return, things went on almost as if nothing had ever happened, as if nothing was different. Eventually, though, Pasquale was forced, once again, to revisit the wounds that just would not heal. This time, it was the wives of his fallen allies, asking if they could come and visit him. Though he knew it would only reopen the door he so desperately wanted to shut, he could not deny them a chance at even the slightest bit of closure.

When Terry, Eileen, and Linda arrived, his heart broke all over again. Pat, Steve, and Franco had been great friends to him, and he missed them dearly, but he knew his pain was nothing compared to the grief of the women who loved them, the widows they’d left behind.

“I am so sorry for your losses,” he told them as soon as they were close enough to hear him. “I know that probably doesn’t mean much...but I am sorry.” He hugged them all and felt his throat begin to close.

One by one they asked him questions that he really had no answers for, but he did his best to tell them something, anything that might help sooth their pain.

“What were they like?” Steve’s wife Terry asked. “Those final moments...what happened?”

“I don’t think any of us were as scared as we would have been if we had known what was really going on,” Pasquale told her. He noticed the mascara running down her face, and he had to look away to keep himself from breaking down. He needed to be strong for those women. He knew that. How could I dare reveal my own pain when theirs is so much more tangible?

“Did they...” Linda, Franco’s wife, began before pausing, as if the question she wanted to ask was fighting against her, not wanting to escape her lips. “Did they…suffer?”

“I don’t...I don’t think so.” As he said this, the tears he’d so desperately been trying to choke back broke through and began to flow. “It all happened so fast—so, so fast. One minute we were making our way down the steps, and in the next…well, it was all just…over.”

As the words came out, the last shred of composure he had been clinging to left him, and he began to weep. How dare you cry when these women lost their husbands? the voice in his head taunted him. Control yourself! Be strong! It did not matter though. His strength had left him, and he could not get it back.

As he cried Terry, Steve’s wife, hugged him.

“I am so sorry,” Pasquale told her. “I am so, so sorry. I wish I could help you. I just want to make things better for you all.”

“It’s okay, Pasquale,” she said through her own tears. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”

After she said it, he sobbed even harder. Look at me, crying like this! I lived, and she lost her husband, but she’s…hugging me?

They continued crying together for a few moments. He did his best to answer every question they had, despite the pain those questions and answers triggered deep within him. He knew it was the least he could do.

Eventually the time came for them to leave. After they made their tearful departure, Pasquale was overcome with pain. It overwhelmed him as he sat in the middle of that provisional cubicle, surrounded by so many friends, but completely alone at the same time. He was forever marked, as if 9/11 Survivor had been tattooed on his head and, even worse, branded on his soul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I Don’t Need Sunshine Now to Turn My Skies to Blue…I Don’t Need Anything but You

“My mom lived every day like she was dying... Every day was a gift.”

~ Louise Buzzelli

Even though he’d thought getting back to a somewhat normal routine would help ease him back into his life, Pasquale’s depression only worsened after he went back to work. At night, when darkness fell, there was a constant battle with his fears, as if the danger of 9/11 had not ended when the Towers came down but was instead permeating through his house.

As Louise watched him spiral downward, she began to fear for her marriage and the good life she’d built with Pasquale. She had lost him for that one day, and now that she knew what that felt like, she could not help but fear that she might again be overcome with that horrible pain again. What made it all worse was that she was helpless; she was completely powerless to do anything as she watched him pull away from her and recede further inside of himself. As time went on, he spent more and more time in some dark place, a pit of despair where even she could not reach him. It scared her to see that happening to Pasquale, because she’d witnessed something far too similar before, back when her own father began to sink into a deep depression after the death of Louise’s mother—a depression he never really recovered from and was still suffering from the day that a fire claimed his life.

~ ♦ ~

Louise’s father, Harry, was the son of Italian immigrants. As many families were in those days, his was quite large, and he was the youngest of twelve, but they managed to make it living in the Bronx. Because their family was so large, they were also very poor, so to help support the family, Harry took a job as a shoeshine boy when he was very young. “Five cents a shine, Louise, and I would give all my earnings to my family to help put dinner on the table,” he often proudly told his own daughter years later, when she was just a little girl herself. Even at that young age, Harry exhibited the extremely giving nature that he would be known for the rest of his life. He was the kind of man who would literally give anything and everything he had to give to help someone else out if he could. Oftentimes throughout his life, he went exceedingly far to give to those who were less fortunate than him. One such occasion was the day he and Louise were walking in the Bronx, on Arthur Avenue, and a man Harry barely knew paid him a compliment.

“Hey, Harry. What a nice watch!” the man said to him.

Harry looked down at the watch as if he’d forgotten he was wearing it. “Oh, you like it?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. That’s a real nice watch.”

“Well, if you like it so much, you should have it.” Without a moment’s hesitation he began unfastening the watch.

“Wh-what?” the man asked with a confused look on his face. “Are you kidding?”

“No, sir! Seriously…take it!” Harry held it out to the man without one ounce of remorse or doubt on his face.

“I can’t take your watch. It must have cost a fortune,” the man said, holding up his hands and shaking his head.

“No, please take it. I am serious. It would make me very happy to give this to you, and happiness is worth so much more to me than a watch.” Harry took the man’s hand, turned it over, and placed the watch into it before closing the man’s fingers around it with his other hand. Harry never regretted giving that watch away, and he was truly delighted to have given someone else something they could enjoy and be proud to own.

Louise was only six or seven years old when she witnessed that charitable act, and from then on, she adored and

admired her father’s kindness and generosity toward others.

~ ♦ ~

When Harry met Louise’s mother, Josephine, he was going through a divorce. It was hard on him, as he had three children by his first wife, and he loved them dearly. Nevertheless, it worked out for the best when he met Josephine, also a divorcee, and they fell for each other almost immediately. It took them a little longer than they would have liked to find each other, but they completed each other and spent the rest of their lives together.

When Harry was forty-six and Josephine was forty-one, the couple brought a beautiful baby girl into the world. They named that baby Louise. To Harry, the name held special significance, for it was the name of one of his older sisters, his most beloved one who was closer to him than some of the others. His sister Louise had always been incredibly kind and had always looked out for him, so he chose his baby’s name in honor of her.

When Harry was twelve, he’d lost his right eye in an accident. Because the family was so impoverished and had so many mouths to feed, an expensive prosthetic was out of the question for young Harry, so he had to make do with an eye patch for years, until his sister Louise stepped in.

Louise wanted to save Harry the embarrassment and scorn of having to wear an eye patch as a young man, so she decided to ask the neighborhood for help. She went door to door on Arthur Avenue (“Little Italy” in the Bronx) and asked for donations so the family could afford to get her baby brother, Harry, a prosthetic eye. Her dedication paid off, the neighbors gave what they could to help their fellow Italians, and Harry was relieved of having to wear that god-awful eye patch. His prosthetic was a constant reminder of his big sister’s love for him.

Louise was a great friend to Harry, but she died tragically at the young age of forty, before she could have a child of her own. In honor of her and to keep his sister’s memory alive, Harry and Josephine lovingly gave their baby girl her name.

~ ♦ ~

Louise’s parents were not wealthy, but they did not struggle financially either. Louise never had to go without, but her parents made sure to instill in her the fact that there were others who did not have the luxuries she had.

Harry took special care to show her what life was like on the other side of the tracks. Periodically, he and Louise made special trips to some of the poorest neighborhoods in New York. One afternoon, he took Louise to a particularly underprivileged neighborhood in the Bronx. When he stopped the car, he turned to her and said, “Look around you, Louise,” and she did.

That day, Louise’s young eyes beheld a poverty-stricken part of one of the most well-known cities in the world. She was surrounded by run-down buildings, many of which were covered in graffiti. There were boarded-up windows and broken-down cars, and unfortunate souls lingered in the streets, sitting on stoops or hanging out of windows.

“Do you see these people?” He pointed to the tenants of rundown apartments, sitting on the stoops in front of the dilapidated building. “They own hardly anything but the clothes on their backs. They can barely afford a place to live. Some nights, they may not even be able to eat.”

Louise was saddened by the things her father told her and all the needy and destitute people she saw, but she understood why he’d taken her there. From then on, she was always keenly aware of how good she had it, and she knew to never take the good things in her life for granted. Harry knew how important it was to make sure his daughter knew that life is not all sunshine and happiness for everyone. It was a lesson she needed to learn, because for much of her childhood, she’d been very fortunate and blessed. She’d only viewed the world through the rose-colored perspective of her decent upbringing, and Harry did his best to show her the other side from time to time. Louise knew that as long as she appreciated the things she had, her father would always make sure she had everything she needed and most things she wanted.

~ ♦ ~

Louise had a happy childhood. Her parents sent her to a private Montessori school, where she could choose the work she wanted to do. She loved her experience there. They gave her the best of what they could afford. Harry and Josephine kept to their parental mantra, “You only get out of a child what you put into them,” so they put everything they had into their daughter.

When she was three years old, she began to show signs of a talent that would allow her tremendous opportunities through her school years; later, unbeknownst to them at the time, it would also serve as her coping mechanism in the months and years that followed 9/11. That talent was her voice. Louise loved watching old TV shows with her mother, and she often mimicked Little Curly Top herself, singing the lyrics to Shirley Temple’s songs.

“Oh, Louise! You sing so beautifully!” Josephine would gush. “Hold on. I want to record this, so Daddy can hear you sing!” Josephine would get out her cassette tape recorder and spend hours listening to Louise sing. She loved watching her daughter express herself in such a way and was often so excited by her little one’s talents that she had to share. “Louise, you just wait till your father gets home! He is going to love hearing you sing!”

When Louise was eight years old, she met a girl named Jill. Before long, the two were inseparable, in spite of their very different home lives and backgrounds. While Louise was an only child, Jill was part of the average American family living in the Bronx at the time. Jill was the oldest of three siblings, raised by a stay-at-home mother. Her younger sister and brother, Elise and John, behaved like little brothers and sisters do. That, of course, involved annoying their older sister, so Jill relished any time she could spend with Louise at her place, away from the pesky ones at home. Louise, likewise, enjoyed spending time at Jill’s home, which was much different than her own, because of Jill’s younger siblings, and all the funny things they would do as a family.

While Josephine was busy with work, Louise spent her summer days at Jill’s house. Josephine always preferred to be on the move. Thus, Louise’s home life was wonderful but far more structured; at Jill’s house, Louise could sleep in and wile away the days playing with Barbies or jumping rope. Jill’s mother, Loretta, even took them out to the pool or to get ice cream or play at the park sometimes, a special treat for Louise. Loretta also loved to bake and often invited the girls to join her in her cookie-and-cake-making, and she cooked dinner for her family every night. This was a far cry different from Josephine, Louise’s mother, who avoided the kitchen as much as possible and absolutely hated to cook.

While Louise enjoyed her outings with Jill’s family, she also went on many with her own mother. Josephine took Louise everywhere, mostly for cultural expeditions; if Louise wanted to spend her time in an art museum, at the symphony, see a Broadway play, or go for tea at the Plaza, Josephine was more than happy to make that happen. On the other hand, if she was after a more casual adventure, such as a dip in the pool or a run-around in the park, Louise did that with Jill and her family. All of this made for a very well-rounded little girl who had many childhood adventures, be they the learning or the playing sort.

When Louise was ten, her parents surprised her with Rusty, a brown poodle. Louise and Rusty were instant pals, and the dog became like the little brother that Louise never had. She and Jill took Rusty everywhere they went. They played fetch with him in the street or took the curly-haired dog along whenever they went to the park. If Louise was out and about, it was a sure thing that Rusty would not be far behind, a hairy shadow that never left her side.

~ ♦ ~

As happy as her childhood was, her early teenage years were packed with even more joy. As Louise grew, so did her talent. Her aptitude for music was apparent to all who knew her. While many parents might have discouraged music or dismissed it as nothing more than a child’s fantasies and a foolish pursuit, Josephine encouraged Louise to pursue her passion. Louise did just that, and with the help of her parents, her dedication paid off. She was accepted at LaGuardia High School of Music and Art, the esteemed school of Fame reputation. Louise’s instrument of choice was voice, and she excelled throughout high school, in the company of many other talented performing arts students, such as Jenifer Aniston.

The little girl who’d once sang Shirley Temple’s dimple-faced tunes into her mother’s tape recorder for her father to hear made her time at LaGuardia worthwhile and, as a result, was accepted at the prestigious Berklee College of Music in Boston, Massachusetts. Louise was thrilled, and her parents were extremely proud of their daughter for her outstanding achievement. Unfortunately, their unbridled happiness was tempered soon after Louise was accepted at Berklee, and their world began to crumble when Josephine fell ill.

Despite her horrible colon cancer diagnosis, Josephine refused to let her illness slow her down, and she even more adamantly refused to let it jeopardize her daughter’s future. When Louise learned of her mother’s illness, her first instinct was to forego college and instead spend that time with her mother, but Josephine promptly nixed the idea as soon as she heard of it and told Louise that she had to go to school. She would not allow her own illness to stand in her daughter’s way. Despite her ailing health, Josephine still spent as much time as she could with Louise and traveled almost every month to visit Louise in Boston.

In an effort to make sure Louise enjoyed her college days as much as possible, and also because she wanted to get to know the people who were keeping her daughter company in Boston, Josephine even went so far as to plan little get-togethers with her new friends from Berklee. Whenever she had the opportunity to visit Louise in her dorm, she often bought soda, chips, and pizza for Louise and her dorm mates. She did not enable raucous or out-of-control behavior, of course, but Josephine always made sure the kids had fun and that her daughter had plenty to smile about.

Louise’s classmates truly appreciated and admired Josephine, and they often asked, “Hey, when is your mom coming back, Louise?” As such, Josephine became the unofficial mother to the Berklee kids, an honor she wore proudly.

She even encouraged nightly jam sessions with Louise and her friends. They would bring their various instruments and gather in a common area and play the nights away. Louise appreciated her mother for that, but it also left her feeling unbearably homesick every time she had to watch her mother drive away.

~ ♦ ~

After her first year at Berklee, Louise was excelling in the classroom, boasting a near-perfect grade point average and a budding skill at the piano. When she returned home for the summer, her mother had a gift waiting for her.

“Louise! Oh my God, I have missed you so much!” Josephine hugged her. “Your father and I are so happy to have you home. I want you to tell me everything that has happened since we last talked. But first, I have a present for you. Close your eyes!”

“What are you talking about, Mom?” Louise asked.

“You will see soon enough. Now listen to me and just close your eyes!” Josephine told her, trying her best to look stern in spite of the huge, telling smile on her face.

Louise did as she was told, and her mother led her by the hand into their apartment. “Can I open my eyes now?” Louise asked when they stopped.

“Not yet. Give me one second.” Josephine let go of her daughter’s hand and, after a moment, said, “Okay! Open your eyes.”

“Oh my goodness, Ma! What did you do?!” Louise exclaimed when she saw it. There, right in front of her and behind her mother was a breathtakingly beautiful white piano. “Mom, how did you manage…how did you get this? It is so beautiful!”

“Don’t you worry about how I managed to get it. You just worry about playing it for me!” Josephine motioned for Louise to sit at the piano, and she did as she was asked.

Louise spent most of the summer on that bench, playing for her mother on those pristine ivory keys. No matter how much she played, Josephine never grew tired of it. There was no way Josephine could have known at the time, but far more than a gift to brighten her home, her daughter’s eyes, and her own ears, she was providing Louise with a tool that she would later use to cope with the fallout of 9/11—a tool Louise would later rediscover with her own daughter.

That summer was full of wonderful memories, memories of Louise’s mother that she would forever cherish. Unfortunately, as beautiful as the memories and music were while the months waned on, they were not enough to ward off the relentless cancer, and Josephine’s condition only worsened.

~ ♦ ~

Louise pleaded with her mother one night on the phone from Boston “Mom, I have to come home. I can’t be here while you are so sick, and I just—”

“Bullshit, Louise,” her mother interrupted. “I am going to be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Louise’s mother was a true native New Yorker, born and raised on Elizabeth Street in Little Italy. She was a strong minded woman who put all of her strength and diligence into everything she did. She was known for saying, “If you ain’t got heart and balls, what’s the point?” and that was how she lived her life. Her cancer was not something that she was going to let get in her way. She wasn’t going to let it get in the way of her daughter’s life either.

“How can I not worry about you, Mom?”

“Just put it out of your mind and concentrate on school. Hey, you know what?” Excitement rose in Josephine’s voice. “You work hard, and I think we all deserve a break. The doctors told me the cancer has spread, but fuck it. How about we take a trip to the Bahamas this winter?”

And, just like that, the trip was planned. Josephine and Louise had a wonderful time in the Bahamas that very winter. They enjoyed every minute they spent together, be it parasailing, talking and laughing near a beach bonfire, or even just lazing around in the sun. Josephine lived by the credo, “Live everyday like you are dying,” and that winter, Louise and Josephine did.

As amazing and refreshing as that trip to tropical paradise was, it would be her last trip, for her condition began to consume her body, even if it could not dampen the woman’s strong and positive spirit. A month or so before passing, when Louise was back at Berklee, Josephine sent her daughter a card. The cover read: “As I was thinking of you today…a smile tickled my face,” and on the inside, she scribed a note for her daughter that Louise would forever cherish, one of the last letters ever written by her hand:

Dear Louise,

I just got off the phone with you, so I thought I would drop you a few words…I love you so much, and I feel alive when I am near you. I knew one day you would grow up, but I didn’t think it would be so fast. We used to have so many laughs together (and fights!), especially when we would go downtown and you would push me in the wheelchair, running up and down Madison Avenue, and all the shopping we would do! Your father wanted to kill me! I guess I just melt when I’m around you, baby. I hope you are having a good time at Berklee and learning everything there is to know about life. Life is so short, Louise, that it is over sometimes before you know it. So EVERY DAY, BE HAPPY! Get everything out of that day, and thank Jesus for giving you that day. I know I have a lot of thinking to do to clear my mind, but I just seem to come up blank all the time. But enough of that…

I love you, and I am so proud of you! God Bless you. I’ll be hearing from you soon. Love you with all my heart.

Love and kisses,

Mommy

Louise was terrified of not being there if and when her mother would finally succumb to her battle with cancer. So, in spite of Josephine’s protests, Louise left Berklee before the following Christmas to help take care of her mother and spend as much time with her as possible.

The memories and mementos Josephine gave Louise would comfort her long after her mother’s passing and still live on in her heart forever. Even as her health worsened, her spirit remained strong. She stayed strong for her husband and daughter, knowing they did not have their own strength to face her illness and her loss. But some battles are impossible, regardless of one’s fortitude and determination, and in February of that year, Josephine passed away.

~ ♦ ~

Louise was devastated, but her father was inconsolable. Although his body was still with Louise, he became little more than a shell of the man he once was. He fell into a depression so deep that he could not even manage to plan his beloved wife’s funeral. Louise, a nineteen-year-old girl who had just lost the source of her inspiration, was left with the daunting and heartbreaking task of making arrangements for her deceased mother.

Harry was not well and could not get over the loss of the love of his lifetime. Louise, helpless to take away his pain, was unable to do anything but watch as he spiraled downward. The only relief she found was in knowing that her cousin Marie worked in the same apartment building where Harry lived.

Marie was a great source of comfort to Louise, but she was like an angel for Harry. His niece, daughter of his beloved sister Mary, was a blessing in a time when he desperately needed one. She would visit Harry every day, and they would talk of old times, back when the family was all together. Though there were only one or two siblings left at the time, they would relive memories of all the crazy fun the Mascias had when all twelve aunts and uncles were alive. They spent hours reminiscing and talking, and Marie always made sure she left Harry full of good spirits and good food. She was very close to him, and Louise was extremely grateful to her cousin for so selflessly looking after her father.

Harry never did recover from the loss of his soul mate. He lived on in body, but that was all; his spark of life was just…gone, as if it had been buried with his beloved Josephine. He loved his daughter with all of his heart and soul, but without Josephine, he felt like half of his soul had been ripped away from him, and he could not get it back.

In February of 2000, a fire broke out in Harry’s apartment, and his lungs were damaged severely by the smoke. While he was placed on life support, he couldn’t hold on for long, and on March 10, he took his last breath. Louise held on to him for dear life, but eventually the beeping of the machine—her only signal that Harry was still with her—fell silent. Louise held on to him and wept, whispering in his ear, "Goodnight, my love...Sleep tight, my love...God bless you...Pleasant dreams, sweetheart...” a song she used to sing to him from the Shirley Temple album when she was little. She did take some solace in knowing that he was finally where he wanted to be: back with his darling Josephine.

What Louise didn’t know at the time was that just shortly over a year later, she’d be holding on for dear life once again and hoping beyond hope that her own darling wasn’t going to leave her far too early.

~ ♦ ~

As Louise watched her husband recede farther inside of himself, she could not bear to wonder if maybe the man she loved with every fiber of her being was heading down the same path as the first man she’d loved, her father. Harry had never managed to crawl out from the pits of despair, and now she worried that her husband would also suffer the same fate. She worried that Pasquale would become only a shell.

She had always envisioned a perfect life with him, the fairytale wedding with her Prince Charming leading to the birth of an angelic little baby, but as the birth of their daughter approached, that fairytale seemed to be crumbling around her. She’d thought the time leading up to their daughter’s birth would be as happy as the times before her mother was diagnosed with cancer, rather than the desperate, tainted state things were in after the Towers fell. And, once again, she was helpless to do anything but watch as the love of her life was falling down. She could only pray he would somehow manage to stand back up again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It’s Like Rain on Your Wedding Day

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”

~ Aristotle

He was at the table, then down on one knee. Impossible! In this place, above all places in the world, he was going to ask her to marry him.

“I love you very much.” He took her hand in his. His eyes were warm, his face like that of a little boy, expectant and hoping. Maybe he was even a little afraid of what her answer might be. “Will you share with me one love, one lifetime? Will you marry me?” His voice shook just a little.

She closed her eyes. She had to encapsulate that rare and wonderful moment, to make it a part of the long memory of her life, to weave it into a fabric so fine and lasting. All perfect.

When she opened her eyes, he was holding a lovely ring in front of her. Her eyes filled. How can any woman contain this much happiness? How can I simply say, “Yes”?

She reached out not for the ring, but for him. If I could just hold him. If I could just put my arms around him and feel the warmth, the welcome.

There were tears in his eyes too, as he reached out to her.

“Yes,” she whispered against his cheek. “Yes,” she said and looked deep into his blue eyes…

Thoughts of that magical time sustained Louise as she watched her husband spiral downward, helpless to fix anything. Sometimes it became too much for her, and when it did, she did her best to remember the good times.

From that moment, things had moved quickly. Pasquale had booked a hotel for that night. He’d wanted the entire night—not just the time he was on bended knee—to be special for Louise, an extraordinary memory for her to cherish. He knew he could not take away the pain she’d endured before she’d met him, but he was going to try his hardest to make sure she had only wonderful memories for the rest of her life.

The next day, the engaged couple visited Louise’s father to tell him the great news. When Louise saw Harry, she opened her arms wide and practically ran toward him. She wanted to hug her father one last time as his little girl, before she told him she was going to be a wife. As she hugged him tight she thought, just for a second, From now on, he will not be the only man in my life. She felt just the slightest pang of sadness before she pulled away from him and looked into his eyes. “Daddy, I have news for you…” Louise told him.

Harry tried to look quizzical when she said it.

“Oh yeah? What news?” Harry asked, trying his best to sound sincerely curious, which was hard for him since he already knew what she was going to say. “Everything is okay, I hope.”

“It’s better than okay. Pasquale asked me to marry him!”

“Come here, baby!” Harry exclaimed before pulling her into another hug. “That’s great! When did this happen?” he asked, winking at Pasquale.

Harry let go of Louise and extended his hand to his son-in-law-to-be. As Pasquale shook it, Harry asked, “Well, she said ‘yes,’ didn’t she?” He smiled at Pasquale and laughed before pulling him into a hug. “I am so happy for both of you!” Harry told them. “I can’t think of a better guy for my daughter to marry! I know you will take care of her, Pasquale. Look at this guy! He’s like an ox!”

“I will always take care of her,” Pasquale said as he looked Harry right in the eyes, and he’d never been more certain of anything in his life. If he could do just one great thing in his life, it would be taking care of the woman he loved more than anyone on Earth.

After the announcement, Louise told Harry all about Pasquale’s painstaking efforts to make the proposal special, an unforgettable event. Harry listened to every word, smiling the whole time. As he listened, he thought back to a few days before, when he’d heard the doorbell ring at his apartment in the Bronx…

~ ♦ ~

Harry startled a bit before getting slowly out of his chair. He was very careful to look out of the peephole on his door because, as far as he could remember, he was not expecting any visitors. When he saw Pasquale standing in the hallway, he was surprised. “Hey, Pasquale,” Harry said, opening the door. “Nothing’s wrong with Louise, is it?”

“What? Oh no, no, Mr. Mascia,” Pasquale assured him. “I just saw her for lunch. Your daughter’s fine.”

“Oh. All right. I’m just not used to your coming by on your own.”

“Is this a bad time, Harry? I was hoping I could talk to you about something important.”

“Of course you can! Come on in, Pat. My door is always open.” Harry held the door open to let Pasquale through. “Can I get you anything? Have a seat, and I’ll warm up some coffee.”

“Thank you,” Pasquale said as he took his seat. He looked around the apartment, admiring Harry’s devotion to his late wife. From what Louise had told him, he knew Harry had left everything exactly the same as it had been while his beloved Josephine was alive. She’d passed away in 1989, so the apartment had a distinct feel of stepping into a Madonna music video. It was the quintessential modern eighties motif, glass and chrome everywhere.

While Pasquale pondered this, taking everything in, Harry sat down across from him and placed a cup of coffee on the glass dining room table before him. “You mind if I play some cards?” Harry asked, gesturing to the deck he had laid out before him.

“Sure, go ahead.”

Harry stubbed out the cigarette he’d been puffing on into the already full ashtray beside him, then immediately lit another one. He shuffled the cards and dealt them. As he started a new game of solitaire he asked Pasquale. “So, what can I do for you, P.? What’s up?”

“Well, Mr. Mascia, I want to tell you how much I love your daughter,” Pasquale said.

Harry looked at him with a discerning eye, as if he knew what was coming, before looking back down at his cards.

“I think your Louise is a beautiful woman. I love her very much, and I want to marry her,” Pasquale went on. “So…well, Mr. Mascia, I’m here to ask if that would be okay with you.”

Harry did not look up from his cards. He simply took a long drag on his cigarette and answered, “Yeah, sure. You’re a good guy, and I see how much you love my daughter.”

And, just like that, Pasquale was free to ask Louise to be his wife. Despite the smell of smoke that clung to his clothes and the fact that Harry didn’t seem the least bit surprised, Pasquale could not have been happier.

~ ♦ ~

Harry had not been shocked by Pasquale’s question and did not make a big deal out of giving his answer. He’d always been a quiet and unassuming man, giving and very humble. He was very proud that his daughter had found such a strong man, and he knew she would be safe in Pasquale’s strong arms. Harry did not make a big deal of most things in life, and while he was very proud that his daughter had found a wonderful man like Pasquale, he didn’t make a big to-do about it. He was a strong man, as was Pasquale, so there was no need for too much sentimentality between them, but he did make sure Louise knew how highly he thought of Pasquale, particularly one time when he raved about the man who would become a groom for his daughter.

“Do you know what he did, Louise?” he asked her one day when she stopped by his seventh-floor apartment for a visit.

“What did he do, Daddy?” Louise asked, the admiration in Harry’s voice making her smile curiously.

“You remember him and Cousin Richie were gonna move the furniture so the painters could paint the apartment for me, right?”

“Yeah, Dad, I do. They did a nice job,” she said, looking around at the freshly painted walls, now free of the yellow hue, the remnant of years of chain-smoking.

“Well, Pasquale did all of it. Richie was late showing up, and P. moved all of this stuff himself. Can you believe it? I mean, the dresser, the big armoire, the hutch—all of it all by himself! This stuff is heavy, but Pasquale just picked it up and moved it! That couch you are sitting on there, he just lifted it like it wasn’t nothing. He’s strong, Louise. He’s very strong and a hard worker. You’ve got a good man there, baby, and he is crazy for you!”

He thought back on this while his daughter told the story of the proposal, and he knew he’d been right about Pasquale. The young Mr. Buzzelli was a man who would give his daughter everything in his power. When Pasquale and Louise left a little later, he found that he could hardly keep the smile off of his face, even as he tried to sleep that night.

~ ♦ ~

After they told Pasquale’s parents, the hard work began. Pasquale and Louise decided they would pay for their wedding on their own, and she began planning almost immediately.

They decided they would be married at St. Francis Church, affectionately known as “the little church with the big heart” in Hoboken, New Jersey. The little church is steeped in history, and Louise was certain it would be the perfect place for them to exchange their nuptials.

St. Francis Church is a simple little Catholic church that was led by Father Michael Guglielmelli, who retired from there on July 1, 2012, after serving in Hoboken for many years.[2] It was built more than a hundred years ago by Italian immigrants who had previously worshipped at St. Joseph’s, also in Hoboken. Because many of the immigrants came to America from Genoa, Italy, the language barrier at the English-speaking church was a major detriment to the Genoese.

On May 5, 1888, a group of dedicated Italians met and decided they would build an Italian Catholic church of their own—a place where services, confessions, and instructions could be conducted in their own language, so they could fully understand and find connection with their Lord and Savior. St. Francis Church was built, brick by brick, by the hands of those Italians, on land they bought themselves. When it was finished, it became a bastion of worship for many Italians who’d come to America to find a better life.[3]

A stunning brick monument to their Italian heritage, St. Francis was a perfect choice for Louise and Pasquale to give one another their vows to share one love, one lifetime. When they met with Father Michael, privately in his office, they discussed their plans for the ceremony.

“Let us pray,” Father Michael said, bowing his head. He said a short prayer, then looked up at them. “What a glorious occasion! What made you choose St. Francis?”

“Well, Father, it doesn’t hurt that this is the church Frank Sinatra went to,” Pasquale joked, “but seriously, this is the place where my parents were married twenty-nine years ago, and I was baptized here.”

“Buzzelli? Hmm. Oh yes! Ugo and Antonia, right?” Father Michael asked.

Pasquale nodded.

“And of course, your aunt is Anna Buzzelli. Everyone loves Aunt Anna. She’s the Eucharistic Minister here at St. Francis. Such wonderful people!”

“Yes, Father, they are. That is why we want to be married here—”

“So that maybe our marriage will be blessed like theirs,” Louise finished for him.

“Wonderful!” Father Michael exclaimed. “And of course you would like me to do the whole ceremony in Italian and English?”

“Yes. We would like it done in both languages, if you don’t mind,” Louise said.

“I don’t mind, not at all!”

“That’s great,” Pasquale said before asking, “But, Father Michael, would we be able to have a shorter ceremony? Not a full ceremony, but like…half of one?”

The priest looked at them for a moment, before saying in Italian, “Si può essereun mezzoin stato di gravidanza?”

“What does that mean?” Louise asked Pasquale.

“It means, can you be half-pregnant?” Father answered for Pasquale. “Either you are or you aren’t. There is no halfway with these things.”

Both Pasquale and Louise started to laugh, but they understood what Father Michael meant and settled upon enduring the full Catholic ceremony in both languages.

~ ♦ ~

Things were incredibly hectic during the months leading up to the wedding. It seemed neither Louise nor Pasquale had much time to breathe and take it all in. By the time the day of the wedding was upon them, they were both more than ready. But, as is always the case, not everything was as perfect as they had hoped it would be.

On the day of the wedding, Louise left her apartment, already in her gown, and was greeted by the first obstacle of the day. Though she had prayed and prayed for perfect weather on her special day, the clouds had other ideas: rain. The bride-to-be opened her door and was greeted, as if Mother Nature was playing some kind of cruel joke, a monsoon. She tried not to let the dreary weather get her down by remembering something Mama Buzzelli had told her: “Rain on your wedding day is good luck. It means no tears in your marriage.” With that in mind, Louise took a deep breath before she followed her cousin Joanne, her maid of honor, and got into the limo.

The limo driver nodded, and they departed New York to head to the church in Hoboken, New Jersey. Louise tried to sit back and enjoy one of the few quiet moments she would have all day, but even that was not simple. As they were driving on the highway, the old Rolls-Royce began to sputter and died completely in the middle lane of the Cross Bronx Expressway. Louise sat there with Joanne, in the rain, in a broken old limo…and began laughing heartily.

Joanne looked at her, stunned for a brief second, then started laughing right along with her. “Louise, what the hell is going on?”

“I know!” Louise gasped, clutching her side. “You couldn’t make this shit up!”

Just as she was about to start crying from laughing so much, a car pulled up beside them, a car full of Louise’s bridesmaids, Dara, Patti, and Rory. Maybe God does want me to get married today, she thought. She took a deep breath before opening the limo door and stepping out into the downpour, wedding dress and all.

Joanne stepped out behind her, holding the skirt of her dress up in the air to keep it from getting soaked by the dirty water splashing off the asphalt.

Well, I hope Pasquale does not mind that half of the freaking Bronx has now seen my underwear, Louise thought, allowing another chuckle to escape as the rain pelted down on her.

As she made her way to the other limo, she heard honk, followed by another beep, and then another. She waved her hand as cars and trucks drove past, cheering and waving her on, showing their support and wishing her well. Louise was touched, but she would have expected nothing less than a good, old-fashioned Bronx cheer from her fellow New Yorkers.

When she finally got into the car, she was not surprised to see that her bridesmaids were laughing too!

“Here, take these.” Joanne held out some napkins to Louise, which she took with gratitude.

“So, other than soaked, how are you?” Dara asked, causing yet another eruption of laughter. “You nervous?” she probed as the laughter died down.

Louise smiled at her, knowing that Dara was nervous on her behalf. “No, not at all,” Louise answered, and she meant it. “Nothing will stop me from getting to Hoboken today. Even if I’d have had to leave all of you behind and hitch a ride with a trucker, I am getting married today!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A Little Hope in Your Life

TV Presenter Tara Brown: How many miracles do you think saved you that day?

Pasquale Buzzelli: How many miracles? Three maybe? The elevator...I should have died there.

I mean, a lot of people died in the elevators. [Also surviving] the building collapse and my daughter…so three.

~ 60 Minutes Australia

(September 11, 2002)

Pasquale sat on the couch, just days after the most important moment of his life, the day his and Louise’s dreams had come true, yet he was doing the same thing he’d done every night since 9/11 and would continue to do for the foreseeable future.

The room was dark, with the exception of the blue hue emitted by the television. Those images never changed; the production people simply rearranged the order in which they showed them. Some days they’d start with an image of the clear skies, followed by the collision of the first plane. Other times, they’d start more grimly, showing the Towers collapsing, then soften the blow by focusing on the blue skies behind them, finishing with shots of citizens standing together, hoping the message would be received: “We are America! We will stand strong together, and we will move on!”

Unfortunately for Pasquale, as hard as he fought to remain strong and “move on,” he couldn’t seem to break free of it all. The rest of the world might have been moving on, but it seemed that no matter what he did or what was happening in his life at that point, he was simply at a standstill.

Two months prior to that night, he’d been able to think of nothing other than getting to the day when he could finally hold his baby girl in his arms. So many times, he’d envisioned a rapturous moment, when he would look down at his baby girl before looking up into the eyes of his beautiful wife. Two months before that night, he would have said nothing would have been capable of stealing that moment from him or distracting him from it. Two months before that night, Pasquale Buzzelli would have shouted from the rooftops that nothing could ever possibly diminish the joy he’d feel when baby Hope was born.

November 17, 2001 started off the same as every other day had since September 11. Pasquale awoke in the early hours of the morning, nearly bound in the bed sheets, for his restless night had twisted them around him, and he was sweating profusely. As he’d done so many times before, he tried to calm himself by taking large gulps of air. I am okay. It was just a dream, he told himself. The elevator is only in my dreams. I am not trapped…anymore. He knew they were only memories, nightmares, but still they felt so real. There he was, riding in an elevator, an event so normal to most people that they don’t even realize they’re doing it. But then came the jolt, the shudder of the elevator as it began to plummet more quickly than it should have. He would remain in that elevator, trapped, the walls closing in on him. Pasquale could not understand why, after all the trauma he’d endured, that frightening elevator ride was the nightmare that haunted him most.

After a few moments, his heart rate would slow. He would take one last deep breath and somehow find the courage to start his day. Most of his days amounted to an exercise in just gritting his teeth and enduring, and November 17 was no different. When he finally returned home from work, he just wanted to collapse on the couch, where he would inevitably find countless images of the event that continued to haunt his every waking and sleeping moment.

“Hey, Pasquale,” Louise said, greeting him with a kiss. “How was your day today at work?”

“It was fine, Nunu,” he replied, doing his best to keep the agony he felt inside him from showing. “How are you feeling? Shouldn’t you be lying down?”

“I’m fine—a little sore, but look at me!” She gestured to her rotund, pregnant belly, which now had the appearance of a balloon that was just about to pop. “Aches and pains just come with the territory. Oh…did you pick up my food?”

“Of course.” Pasquale pulled a bag from behind his back. “How could I forget?”

“Thank you, Pasquale!” She hugged him quickly before taking the bag. “I’ve been craving this all day!”

“You remember where we used to eat this, right?”

“Mm-hmm.” Louise nodded, after she swallowed. “In Amalfi, on our honeymoon. God, Italy was so beautiful. You remember we stayed at The Santa Caterina?”

Pasquale looked at his wife and could not help but smile. He nodded, and she continued eating. He remembered how happy they’d both been on their honeymoon, where she’d first eaten the hard-boiled egg, crusty Italian bread, with Sopressata sausage, fresh mozzarella, tomato, basil, and extra virgin olive oil. All of the ingredients had been so fresh and new and vibrant, picked straight out of the garden. Everything had seemed so carefree then, back before they’d even begun trying to get pregnant—what now seemed like an eternity ago, but was not even four years ago.

Louise was so pregnant, yet strong as ever, and so beautiful as she sat there nibbling for two. Things had been awkward between them lately, but in moments like that, Pasquale found a slight reprieve; if only for a moment, he could almost put his heartache on the back burner and forget about it. He loved his wife so much, and when he thought about everything she’d gone through and how she’d come out of even stronger, it gave him hope that he, himself, might one day recover from the scars of 9/11 and move on like the rest of the world. Louise was a woman strong in spirit, even though life had never been easy for her. She’d endured so many struggles. Even something as simple and common as getting pregnant had proven to be a challenge, but she was not one to back down from obstacles or give up hope when it came to getting what she wanted.

~ ♦ ~

In the spring of 1999, close to a year after they were married, Louise and Pasquale decided they were ready to bring a little one into the world, someone they could both love and cherish as much as they loved and cherished one another. Louise had dreamt of being a mother since she was a little girl.

As Louise grew older, it became even more important to her to have her own family, and when she lost her own mother, she knew for certain what she was meant to do: She was supposed to be a mother, to love her own children as she had been loved, and—most of all—she was supposed to give her children all the things and the precious moments that had been stolen from her when her mother was taken captive by that horrible disease called cancer. She wanted the chance to give herself to a child of her own and to show that child all the love she had inside of her, just as her parents had done for her while they’d still had the opportunity to do so.

Thus, when Pasquale was ready, she didn’t hesitate for a moment. Their initial hopes of conceiving went unanswered, though, and Louise began to worry that her dreams of holding a baby in her arms might go unfulfilled. They both began to worry, so early that summer, Louise came up with a plan.

“P., I think we should get a dog!” Louise burst out with no hint of pretense.

“Uh…what?” Pasquale asked, prying his eyes away from the game he was watching on TV.

“I want to get a dog. I always had a dog growing up, and I think we should get one.”

“Louise, I don’t want a dog,” Pasquale said with a sigh.

“Oh, come on! We need a dog. We need someone to fill the rooms of this house. I know you never had pets growing up, so you don’t understand how much love a dog can bring into your life!”

Pasquale, though still opposed to the idea, did not protest any further. He could see how much it would mean to Louise, so he conceded to canine ownership after all. Brittany the Soft Coated Wheaton terrier was part of their family. The furry dog had been born on March 19, Louise’s mother’s birthday, and Louise took that for a sign that Brittany was meant to come into their lives. Despite Pasquale’s initial reluctance, he quickly fell for the pup, and both Louise and Pasquale felt she was a part of their family, like their extra-furry firstborn.

Even with the new addition to their family, they still wanted a child. Since they had not conceived naturally in well over a year and were not willing to give up so easily on their quest for the pitter-patter of little feet, they decided to talk to Louise’s doctor about it to find out if they were candidates for in vitro fertilization. After discussing it with family and friends and receiving positive feedback and encouragement, Louise and Pasquale located Dr. Michael Cho, an extremely sympathetic in vitro specialist.

“Mrs. Buzzelli?” a nurse with cats on her scrubs called out.

Louise raised her hand, and the nurse spotted her.

“The doctor will see you now.”

Louise looked at Pasquale, and she knew they were both thinking the same thing: What if this is it? What if we simply cannot have kids? What if we are not meant to have children of our own? They were both only children, and they began to wonder if there was a reason for that. Maybe our genes will make it too hard—or even impossible—for us to have children. As these thoughts ran through Louise’s mind, she let out a long sigh. When she looked down at the floor, she felt Pasquale’s large hand overtake hers and give a soft squeeze. Even in that time of personal crisis, she felt incredibly grateful and knew Pasquale was doing everything he could to comfort her.

When they entered the room, they sat in silence, waiting for the doctor to see them. Louise sat on the exam table, and Pasquale squeezed into the chair in the corner, which was definitely made for a much smaller man than him. Louise tried her best to think of something to say, anything that would break the unbearable silence, but she could think of nothing. Luckily, the doctor did not keep them waiting too long.

“Hello, Louise.” Dr. Cho greeted her with a warm smile. “How are you feeling today?”

“I am okay,” she lied. “Dr. Cho, this is my husband, Pasquale.”

“Hello, Pasquale!” Dr. Cho extended his hand, and Pasquale shook it. Dr. Cho winked at Louise and said, “Wow! Quite a grip on this guy. What are you feeding him?”

“It’s not my fault, Doctor. His mother won’t stop bringing over roast beef and whole chickens.”

“I have been meaning to start Weight Watchers,” Pasquale said, a bit sheepishly.

They all laughed, and Louise felt very grateful to Dr. Cho for helping to ease the tension they were both feeling.

“Nonsense, Pasquale. You look like you are strong as a bull,” Dr. Cho said after he stopped laughing. “Now, as for the results of your tests—”

“Oh God, Doctor. How do they look?” Louise held her breath, trying to read the doctor’s expression for any signs of hope.

“Can we try in vitro?” Pasquale interrupted, his fingers secretly crossed in his pocket.

“Yes. I would say you are great candidates to try in vitro fertilization.”

Louise clapped her hands together, and Pasquale stood up and hugged her. “Thank you so much, Dr. Cho!” Louise said, wiping her eyes.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dr. Cho said. “I need to be honest and upfront about you. This is still a process, and there is no guarantee that it will work. Due to your age and health, you have as good a shot as anyone. But still, the success rate for women in your age range is about 35 percent on the high end.”

“Still, Doctor…” Pasquale hesitated for a moment. “It’s good to know that we have a chance.”

Dr. Cho became a rock for the Buzzellis during that worrisome experience. After two years of trying to conceive, they were ready to put all of their hopes in Dr. Cho’s hands and trust that they would be rewarded with their ultimate wish.

A few months later, they found themselves back in that same office, hoping for more good news when the doctor entered the room.

“Louise, Pasquale, how are you both?” Dr. Cho asked.

“We’re okay, Doctor,” Pasquale said.

“Oh, Pasquale, we are not okay.” She waved him off and turned to the doctor. “He always keeps things to himself. We are both very nervous, Dr. Cho.”

“Well, don’t be,” Dr. Cho said and smiled.

“You mean…?” Louise asked, unable to say the words.

“Yes! You are going to be parents!”

“Oh my God!” Louise exclaimed as she put her hand to her mouth.

Pasquale jumped out of his chair, and they both hugged as Louise cried tears of joy. They were both so caught up in the emotion that Pasquale reached out and grabbed Dr. Cho, who was much smaller than him, and pulled him in close, holding him in one big group hug.

“Congratulations to you both!” Dr. Cho said after they released him from the bear hug, “Now, I have another patient to tend to, so I will leave you two to enjoy this moment alone.”

“Thank you so much, Doctor!” Louise said before turning to hug Pasquale again.

Dr. Cho, humble as he was about his life-changing work, simply smiled, nodded, and left the room.

“Can you believe it, P.? You’re going to be a daddy! Oh my God! Your parents are going to be so thrilled!”

Pasquale smiled at his wife, the would-be mother of his child, and hugged her again. He was always the strong, silent type, and at moments like that, he had trouble finding the right words. He knew of none that could express the feelings of elation coursing through his body, so he instead settled for kissing Louise on the top of her head and hugging her close.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

And Now We Meet…the Bulldog!

“Helping the Red Cross helped me get through it all.”

~ Kathryn Carey

A pretty woman with dark hair was sitting alone, her elbows on her knees and her head hanging in defeat. Kathryn Carey’s normally vibrant brown eyes were now empty, as if the tragedy of the prior day had sucked the life right out of her. It was September 12, 2001, just after 1:00 a.m., and she could not even manage to shed a tear for the loss she was feeling. There was so much sadness surrounding her, but she was utterly numb inside. Who the fuck does this? she thought. Who runs a plane into a building full of civilians? So many dead…so many! And Michael? What do I do with Michael? What do I do with his… with his body?

~ ♦ ~

If ever anyone was born to be anything, Michael Lyons was born to be a firefighter. He was born in America but spent most of his youth in Ireland. He did well in school and was university educated. For a while, he worked as a teacher, but he felt called to do something else, as if he was needed elsewhere. Despite the prospect of a life lived in relative leisure, he opted for a much more difficult existence, one that would ultimately be more rewarding. He felt compelled to serve his fellow man, and he did so by signing on to become a firefighter. He knew it would be dangerous, but he had never backed away from danger to spare himself, and the morning of September 11, 2001 was no different. He heard a distress call and answered, not because he had to, but because he felt it was the right thing to do. That was just the way Michael was.

Kathryn and Michael were enjoying some well-deserved time off. They always seemed to be on the go, but they’d decided to spend a weekend away from their responsibilities and go horseback riding. They returned to Brooklyn on Monday night, even though they had Tuesday off, because Kathryn had a doctor’s appointment to be checked out for the severe stomach pains she’d been experiencing for a while. Michael had asked his friend Mike Morabito to cover for him so he could be with Kathryn on her doctor visit. But that all changed early Tuesday morning when they turned on the radio…

“Holy shit, Kath!” Michael exclaimed as he listened to the news,

“What…that’s not…It isn’t real, is it? Turn on the TV!”

Within moments, the television—every channel—confirmed that what the radio was saying was, in fact, the awful, horrible, truthful reality.

“It’s all over the news, every channel. Oh my God! Mike was…he covered for me today! All the guys will be down there. K., I’m sorry, but I have to go…NOW! I have to get down there and help them.”

Kathryn was scared and did not want Michael to leave her, but she understood and did not argue. She kissed him goodbye and watched, stunned, as he hopped on his motorcycle and raced off toward the carnage. She could not help but be amazed at him, a man who would willingly walk into hell for the sake of others, but again, she understood. Despite her well-manicured appearance, Kathryn possessed a rare inner strength, one that made her wish she could have hopped on the back of that bike and ridden toward the wreckage with him.

That day was unfathomably long for many, and things were no different for Kathryn. She spent hours trying to contact her other friends who were missing, especially her close friend Eric Eisenberg, but she had no luck. When the second World Trade Center Tower came down, she was certain Michael was just…gone. She knew he would have arrived right around that time, and after waiting for hours for word from him or about him, anything to let her know Michael was alive, she was certain she’d lost her heroic boyfriend.

How could he have survived? she thought. No one could survive that. But why Michael? Why’d he have to go down there? What do I do now? How do I tell his family? Oh God! He wanted to be buried in Ireland. How do I get his…how do I get him back there? We dropped his suit off at the dry cleaner’s. Maybe if I pick that up they can ship it with his bo…with him.

She was alone and devastated by these thoughts when the phone rang. It was 1:20 a.m., but she answered it automatically, giving no thought to who might be on the other end. “Hello?”

“Kath? It’s me, Michael.” His voice was faint due to a bad connection, but it was definitely him.

“Oh my God! Michael! I saw it on TV, and I thought you were—”

“No, I’m okay, but it’s bad down here—real bad.” Michael stopped for a moment to glance around him at the horror and chaos. “Listen, I can’t talk now, but I am going home as soon as I can get there. I’ll call you in the morning.”

There was something hollow, empty, and stoic about his voice, as if there was nothing behind it, nothing deeper than the vacant echo of the words themselves. Kathryn was worried about him, and she did not want to get off the phone, but she understood that he needed his space.

~ ♦ ~

The next morning, she met Michael at his apartment, hoping the sandwiches she’d brought might make him feel better and replenish his strength. “How are you this morning? Are you hurt?” she asked.

“I’m fine. I got a few scrapes and bruises, but nothin’ to worry about. I still can’t believe the carnage though.”

“I can’t imagine…I mean, just seeing it on TV, it’s…unbelievable!”

“Yeah, and that ain’t the half of it.” Falling into his customary Irish brogue, Michael explained, “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I don’t know if I’d believe it. Just absolute horror, complete destruction. I just kept thinkin’, How does a plane do this much damage? You wouldn’t believe how little is left of those buildings—steel and concrete, just turned to dust and rubble. It’s a fuckin’ crater. And there’s…well, there’s nobody left. I mean, I kept looking, and I was even going places that the actin’ supervisors said were off limits, but—”

“‘Acting supervisors’?” Kathryn interrupted.

“Yeah, Kath, actin’ supervisors.” He sighed, and his shoulders sagged slightly, “So many perished…so many good men, just gone, killed when the building fell. Somebody had to step up to fill the void. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for them. Hell, I don’t want to. It was so goddamned hot in there, in the rubble even. Just the heat from the fires…it was like standin’ next to a heated oven in the summertime when the oven door is left open—just so freakin’ hot! And the craters. There’re just these huge voids where concrete and steel had been. Me and the boys had to maneuver around ‘em. I just kept thinkin’, A buildin’ was here just hours ago, and now it’s…’ All this while, we could barely breathe. All the heavy equipment mixed with the heat and the dust and shit in the air—even with oxygen masks, it was so hard to breathe. It was hard, but we did rescue one civilian, and—”

“Wait…you found someone?” Kathryn shook her head, still trying to process what she was being told.

“Yup. He was on top of a mound of debris. One guy from Rescue 5 had to climb up and create a rope cradle for him and lower him down to us, and we had to keep him out of the void.”

“Oh my God! I can’t believe they didn’t even mention that on the news.”

“Well, with everything going on…” Michael half-shrugged, and there was a distant look in his eyes. “Yeah, I tried to keep him conscious, so I asked him his name. He was a big guy, Pasquale something, and his wife is pregnant with their first child…”

~ ♦ ~

“Why? Why can’t I just go into labor now?” Louise asked Brittany, standing at her side. “You lucky dog. You’ll never have to go through this crap!”

She scratched Brittany behind the ears absentmindedly. She took a moment to admire the decorations she’d just hung up for Halloween. Small pumpkins that matched the shape of her belly in her red maternity sweater and baskets of mums were now placed expertly around the front door of their home. She took a deep breath and looked around her. It felt good to be doing something normal for a change, and she relished every moment.

It really is a beautiful day, she thought as she admired the changing leaves that clung stubbornly to the trees that lined Rivervale Road. This is what life should be about! The weather was perfect, with just a slight chill in the air, a crispness that just added to the slight buzz that seemed to carry on the breeze. After a moment, she snapped out of her reverie and decided to go back inside.

“C’mon, girl!” Louise snapped her fingers, and Brittany followed her inside. Once inside, Louise bent over and patted Brittany lovingly. “Look at you! You look so good in your Halloween bandana! How about some nice music to celebrate our fun day?”

Louise was just about to put on a spooky, silly Halloween DVD when she heard the phone ring. “It’s always something, isn’t it, Brittany?”

The terrier perked up her ears from her spot on the couch, as if to show solidarity, but she made no movement to get up.

“Hello?” Louise answered into the phone.

“Hello. I am looking for Pasquale Buzzelli. Is this the Mr. Buzzelli’s residence?” asked a voice Louise did not recognize.

The call from a stranger did not surprise Louise, as she’d grown quite accustomed to constant calls from people who just wanted to wish their family well. “Yes. I am his wife. Can I help you?”

“Well, I know this sounds crazy, but…I think my boyfriend saved your husband’s life…”

~ ♦ ~

Kathryn could not believe what Michael had just told her. There were so many people in those buildings. How could they have only found one man? Although it seemed unfathomable to her that so few had made it out of the Twin Towers, Kathryn realized over the next few weeks that they’d been lucky to find even one man alive.

The day after the attacks, Kathryn made a decision: She was not going to be the meek girlfriend who would stand idly by while others stepped willingly toward the unfathomable wreckage. She, too, would help in any way she possibly could, just as Michael had bravely done. She did not know exactly how, but she knew she had to do something. Her first stop was the Family Assistance Center at the Armory on Lexington Avenue (which eventually had to be moved to Pier 92 on the Hudson River) and began hanging missing person signs of friends, including one for Eric Eisenberg.

After a while with no sign of or word about Eric, Kathryn decided to fill out a missing person’s report. While she was doing so, she met a man from the Red Cross, Lou Pannera. Immediately, she knew what she needed to do. “Hi. My name is Kathryn Carey.” She introduced herself to Lou and shook his hand. “I really want to help with the rescue effort. Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m sorry,” Lou said, shaking his head, “but to be frank with you, we already have more volunteers than we know what to do with.”

Kathryn was surprised by this and was momentarily crestfallen. He turned to leave but, never one to give up, she pressed on. “Look, I-I…Mr. Pannera, you have to let me do something. With everything that has happened, I just can’t work. I can’t…I can’t do anything, none of my normal stuff anyway. But maybe I can do something for the Red Cross. I know you have plenty to deal with already, but…well, if you don’t let me volunteer, I know I’m going to start to spiral downward, because my boyfriend Michael, well, he’s out there helping, you know? He is in the hole at Ground Zero, and he’s risking his life, and I’m losing a bunch of friends. Look, sir, please! I have to help. I don’t care how. Somehow, I just have to help. I promise I’ll do anything you need. I will…” She hesitated for a moment, not sure what else to say.

Lou looked directly into her eyes and put his hands on her shoulders.

Feeling reassured, Kathryn went on. “You know, I’ll make copies, I’ll fetch you water or coffee or whatever. I’ll do anything for you—anything! Just please let me help.”

Moved by her conviction, Lou knew immediately that Kathryn would be a true asset to the feverish efforts of the Red Cross. He offered to put her to work right away, and Kathryn couldn’t possibly turn that offer down. Just like that, she’d found a way to help—to help Michael, to help Eric, to help…all of them.

~ ♦ ~

Louise stood in stunned silence. She could not believe what she’d heard from the stranger on the other end of the phone. After a few seconds, she heard the voice again.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Um, yeah. Excuse me, but I-I don’t think I heard you right,” Louise answered.

“My name is Kathryn Carey. My boyfriend is Michael Lyons. He’s a firefighter, and he was at the Twin Towers on September 11. He told me they saved a man named Pasquale, whose wife was pregnant.”

“Oh...my God!” Louise did not know what else to say for a moment, but then she finally managed to squeak out, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I am 100 percent serious,” Kathryn said.

Again, Louise stayed silent for a few more seconds before exclaiming, “Wow! Kathryn—you said your name is Kathryn, right?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it! I am Louise, by the way!” Louise could hardly think straight. The rush of emotions she felt started to overwhelm her. “Kathryn, your boyfriend—Michael, did you say? He saved my husband’s life?!”

“So Pasquale is your husband and you are pregnant?” Kathryn asked, hopeful.

“Yes and yes. I am very pregnant!” Louise exclaimed.

“Oh my God! You have no idea how hard I have been trying to find you!”

“I cannot believe this! How did you ever find us?” Louise asked, breathless from excitement.

“Well, it’s really kind of a long story…”

~ ♦ ~

After her conversation with Lou Pannera, Kathryn got straight to work. For weeks, she was constantly on the move, giving her all to her volunteer efforts and doing anything they asked of her. Though it was tiring, she was very grateful to have a reason to stay busy. It seemed that every few hours, there was news of yet another body being found among the ruins. It became too much to handle, so Kathryn threw herself into her volunteer work.

After a week or so, she found herself looking for even more work to keep her distracted. One day, she was sent to drop off some paperwork at the United Firefighter’s Association (UFA). She noticed how busy they were and saw an opportunity to do some good. “Hello,” she said politely, introducing herself to the person in charge. “I volunteer with the Red Cross, and I would like to help here. Is there anything I can do to pitch in?”

“Of course! We can always use help around here. We’ll put you to work if you’re willing.”

Kathryn was more than willing, and because she was, she found herself in charge of the Red Cross Family Assistance Center.

The hours were long, sometimes requiring her to be there for eighteen, twenty, or even twenty-four hours at a time. The long hours were not the most taxing part of the job however; the strain of the job came from dealing with the countless people, all those hopeless, helpless faces of strangers begging her for information about their missing loved ones. Kathryn heartbreakingly met mothers looking for their children, pregnant women who could not find their husbands, men searching for their wives—countless grieving souls just clutching onto anything they could find to offer even the slightest bit of solace. Just as heart wrenching were the stories she heard from the men and women tasked with cleaning up after the tragedy that had been perpetrated by men who lurked in the shadows like cowards.

So many grown men, the strongest America could offer, collapsed in Kathryn’s open arms. They had no idea how to cope with the mental anguish they were in, and even worse, they felt weak for needing a shoulder to lean on. No matter who needed her, Kathryn did her best to help however she could; if all they needed was a shoulder, she would be that.

As much as she wanted to help everyone, she found she could not help those closest to her. In fact, she could not even help herself. She wanted so badly to help Michael who, despite his stoic façade, was starting to crumble under the weight of so much disaster and death. She kept thinking about the man he and the valiant men he worked with had saved, that Pasquale with the pregnant wife. She knew Michael needed a glimmer of hope. Everyone did—even Kathryn herself. So, the volunteer formed a plan.

She decided she would search any public record she could get her hands on, and there were plenty of them. She was tenacious in her search to find the man Michael had helped to save. Even before this pursuit, her determination had earned her a nickname, “The Bulldog,” because she’d taken on the mayor’s office, demanding to keep communication open. No amount of resistance could deter her, even if it meant countless hours of searching through records with only a first name and a simple fact at her disposal.

~ ♦ ~

“You found us with just a first name?!” Louise asked, flabbergasted.

“Well, Pasquale’s name is sort of unique, I guess, and I knew his wife was pregnant,” Kathryn replied.

“Oh, Kathryn…” Louise could not find the words needed to express what she was feeling. After all Kathryn had gone through to find them, Louise felt words would not suffice, “I-I don’t quite know what to say, but…thank you, and thank God He sent those men…Michael and those other men—no, not men, those angels—to save my husband. Thank you so much for looking for us. We tried, too, to find the firemen who rescued him, but we just kept hitting a wall, with no information on any of them. Pasquale is going to be so happy. You have no idea!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Just in Time

“I thought I’d cry—kissing my father, coming down the aisle, the dance with him, and all the bittersweet

that goes along with your wedding day…but I didn’t cry. My cheeks hurt so much from grinning that by

the end of the day, I just couldn’t laugh or smile anymore. I was so happy, so sure.

That was the one thing I was really, really sure about in my life… Pasquale.”

~ Louise Buzzelli

Louise stood in complete silence, her father by her side. Everyone had warned her of how nervous she’d be, had told her that it was completely normal to second-guess a decision so lofty that would ultimately affect the path of her life. They had the best of intentions and may have been right about most brides, but not about her. She was as ready as one could be and did not feel even the slightest twinge of doubt. Instead, she felt as if the moments she spent standing there, waiting for the big wooden doors to open, were a waste—some kind of cruel taunt, like a child’s bedroom clock ticking far too slowly down to Christmas morning. Those moments were just obstacles, standing in the way of the one when the life she’d always dreamt of could begin.

“You ready, baby?” Harry asked his little girl all grown up.

“More ready than I have ever been for anything, Daddy,” Louise replied. She looked into his eyes and gave him a smile, and he squeezed her hand.

A few seconds later, the big wooden doors before them were thrown open. All was silent as hundreds of eyes fell on her in her sleeveless white dress with the scooped neck. Louise was positively radiant, so much so that they likely could have shut off all the lights and she still would have glowed. After a second, the first few beats of Mendelssohn’s famed “Wedding March” began to play, and she remembered suddenly that she was supposed to start walking.

Louise made her way up the aisle between the friends and family members who stood in anticipation of her and Pasquale’s big moment. She was so happy, in a way she never thought possible. The trek up the aisle seemed to take so long; she just wanted to drop her bouquet and sprint into Pasquale’s waiting arms.

Eventually she took that final step, the one that allowed her to stand in front of the man she loved, looking lovingly into Pasquale’s eyes. She turned to her father and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered.

Harry smiled at her, then reached out his hand toward Pasquale. “Thank you, Pasquale,” Harry said. “Now I know my daughter is in good hands.” Harry shook Pasquale’s hand with both of his, standing rooted to the spot and shaking his head. He could not believe the day had come for him to give his daughter away. He was so happy that his beloved Louise, his cherished sister’s namesake and the living representation of the love he’d shared with his darling Josephine, had found her soul mate, but he still did not want the moment to end. After a minute, Louise tapped her father on his shoulder; he jumped slightly, as if he’d forgotten that a ceremony was taking place.

“Thank you, Mr. Mascia. I’ll take good care of her. I promise.”

“I know you will. I know…” He wiped his eye, smiled at them one last time, and then took his seat next to his older daughter Susan and his niece Marie.

“Let us pray…Preggiamo.” Father Michael began a prayer, repeating each line in English and Italian so all in attendance could follow.

Even though the ceremony was twice as long due to the bilingual mass, for the happy couple, it seemed to breeze by. No sooner had it started than Pasquale was slipping the ring on Louise’s finger. My God…we did it! I can’t believe we are here, in this moment! And then, before she knew it, Father Michael was saying, “Puoi baciarela sposa! You may kiss the bride!” and the whole church erupted in cheers and applause.

The reception was a jovial affair, full of laughter, tears of joy, and the loud, boisterous voices of so many Italians, all there to celebrate the love that Louise and Pasquale shared. Everyone in attendance was full of joy, but none more so than Pasquale’s dear cousin, one of the groom’s lifelong friends.

“May I have everyone’s attention?” beckoned Ralph, a tall, fit, handsome, tattoed man with dark hair and the same blue eyes as Pasquale’s. He raised his glass, tapped the side with a spoon to get everyone’s attention, then announced, “I have a speech prepared!” Ralph looked over at Pasquale and Louise, both smiling so widely. He took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and tried to continue “I-I have a speech...” he mumbled before turning away from the microphone and bringing his hands to his eyes.

“Oh, Ralph,” Louise whispered to Pasquale, tears in her own eyes.

Ralph grabbed a cloth napkin from the table, dabbed his forehead with it, then mustered up the strength to go on. “Wow, P. You are...you’re like a brother to me,” he said before stopping again, trying so hard to compose himself. “And, Louise, you...you’re going to be my sister! I just...we were kids, Pasquale! And now, look at you! You’re married, and...” Ralph, always a strong, confident guy, just could not get the words out. For the first time in his life, he was speechless. He kept stringing the syllables together, little by little, trying to get out the thoughts his heart would not allow him to express, but they just would not come through the emotion.

Despite this, Pasquale and Louise knew exactly what he meant. Louise was especially touched and thought it was a perfect speech, regardless of the words that were or weren’t spoken; she could feel the sentiment emanating from him and straight to them.

~ ♦ ~

Louise thought back on that day and that speech often. Even now, more than three years later. As she sat in the familyroom, she looked over at Pasquale. She wished she could make him feel that happy again, rather than having to watch him sitting and staring, dead-eyed, at those god-awful images that kept playing over and over again on the big screen in their familyroom. She could not bear to watch him any longer, struggling like that, so she sneaked off to call Dara, who always managed to make her feel better.

Dara and Mike Martire were good friends to Louise and Pasquale. Mike was a leuitenant in the New York Police Department, and Dara, his wife, was pregnant with a baby of their own. Dara and Louise had become a comfort to each other as their husbands dealt with their own issues stemming from 9/11.

“Hey, Weezie! How you doing, girl?” Louise heard Dara ask on the other end.

“Hey, Dara. Still pregnant.How about you?”

“Oh God! My back is killing me!” Dara exclaimed. “And the heartburn! Girl, I’m telling you. I feel like my belly is on fire sometimes.”

“I know, right? It is hard to eat anything anymore, even when I’m hungry!” Louise replied.To the outside world, it may have looked insane that Louise could go from thinking so many sad thoughts and being perched on the precipice of a depression and then turn around minutes later and gab on the phone with her friend about pregnancy pains, but for Louise, it was a godsend.

Every moment since the night her husband had escaped death had been oppressively heavy. There were not many people aside from Dara whom she could just call, talk about nothing with, and actually laugh—just...laugh! It was almost as if the burden could be lifted, at least temporarily, in those moments; she could almost just think about normal, mundane things such as the horrors of being unbearably pregnant. But then, she would not be unbearably pregnant for long.

All good things must come to an end, and eventually Dara had to hang up the phone and head out to a party. After that, Louise sat in silence for a few moments, left alone with her thoughts. It was during those moments, in the torturous, solitary quiet, that she finally broke.Oh God. Tell mewhy, God?What’s going on in this world? Why Pasquale? Why anyone’s husband? They never did anything to anyone. Wwhy did that happen to them? Why did some worthless COWARDS from the other side of the world get to take away these innocent people? My husband was a good man, and so were— OUCH! Hey! What was that? Oh God!

And, just like that, Hope was ready to come into their lives...and she was just in time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

When Two Become Three

“I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean.
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens.
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance,
and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance…I hope you dance!”

~ Lee Ann Womack

(“I Hope You Dance”)

Pasquale’s eyes opened wide, his head snapped forward, and he looked around the dark room for any sign of familiarity. He could see nothing outside of the light being cast by the big TV in front of him. God, it’s just...another nightmare. Maybe I should go to bed...

He picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV. He knew he should shut it off, but his hand just hung in midair, as if he’d lost control of it. He just wanted to shut off the TV and go to bed, but his brain would not let him. Instead, he just watched, once again a slave to the images of destruction flashing on the screen.

“P., are you awake?”

Pasquale jumped at the sound of Louise’s voice behind him. He immediately hated himself for being startled. Every since he’d come home the night of September 11, loud noises had caused him to jump. Whether it was an explosion on TV, a garbage truck in the early hours of the morning, or even just a door slamming, he would flash back to the horrors of five weeks prior. He had gotten better at hiding his jumpiness, but on that night, in that vulnerable and sleepy and nightmare-awakened state, he was not in control. “Oh, Nunu...” he began, hoping she hadn’t noticed. “I thought you were asleep. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, but...well, I think I’m in labor.” Louise’s voice remained calm. Despite the pains she was feeling and the excitement that her baby may finally be on the way, she was not alarmed. She had been ready for that day since the day Pasquale had asked her to share one love, one lifetime. She was, however, worried about stressing Pasquale further. He was already in such a vulnerable state, she did not want to cause him further distress.

“Uh, okay then! Let’s get you to the hospital.” Pasquale stood up and immediately took control of the situation.

Louise was surprised by his initiative at first, but then she just smiled. After all of those weeks of watching her husband seemingly fade away, she knew the man she had married was still in there somewhere, and now he stood in front of her, ready to do whatever she needed, to be her protector and provider, just as he always had.

Pasquale had always been a planner. He’d always thought several steps ahead, and he never liked to be surprised. So, even though he struggled to find some of the strength he had before 9/11, he had prepared for the moment when they’d deliver their baby. He would not allow his personal struggles to infringe on that blessed moment. He would be strong for his wife as she brought their little Hope into the world.

Within moments, the daddy-to-be was helping Louise into their car. Louise was in pain, but it was not intolerable, so the ride to the emergency room was relatively uneventful. Louise was admitted to the Pascack Valley Hospital maternity ward, but then the labor pains began to weaken.

“Mrs. Buzzelli, your contractions are slowing down,” said Dr. Dotto, their physician, barely glancing up from his chart. “It seems like this was just a false alarm, Braxton Hicks contractions. It’s nothing to worry about—pretty common, actually. You’re probably not in full labor just yet.”

“Oh no! We came all the way here just for a drill?” Louise asked in disbelief.

“Don’t feel bad, Nunu,” Pasquale said. He took her hand in his and went on, “You had no way of knowing the difference.”

“Mr. Buzzelli is right,” the doctor interjected. “Braxton Hicks is easily confused with full labor. That’s why we call it ‘false labor’. Since you’re already here, we’re going to go ahead and monitor you for a little while longer. If the contractions continue to slow or come to a stop, we’ll send you home. Sound good?”

“No, that doesn’t sound good. I don’t want to go home. I want to have my baby!” Louise responded.

Dr. Dotto smiled at her before leaving the room.

Once they were alone and in the quiet, save for the beeping of the machines and the shuffling of nurses in the hall, Louise spoke softly to Pasquale. “I am so sorry, P. We drove all the way here…for nothing.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m not upset at all. Actually, I would’ve been pissed if you had ignored the contractions. I mean, it’s not like either of us have done this before.”

Pasquale hugged her, and she smiled. He always knew what to say to draw a grin out of her. It was one of the many reasons, though there were more than she could possibly count, why she loved him.

“And hey,” Pasquale continued, “now that I think about it, this is probably the first time we’ve been alone since it happened.” He did not have to say what the unmentionable “it” was, as they both knew: “It” was and seemingly always would be 9/11, the unspeakable day when those Towers collapsed.

“Oh my God, you’re right! It seems like this is the first time in a month when it’s just been the two of us.”

Pasquale leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You want some more ice chips?” he offered.

Louise nodded, and Pasquale asked a nurse to refill her cup.

The next hour was quite calm. They spoke to each other in whispers, and, for the first time in five weeks, their conversation was free from the intrusion of 9/11. The only interruptions came every few minutes, when Louise felt the pang of a contraction.

“I think it’s starting to speed up,” Pasquale said to Louise. “I am going to tell the nurse.”

As it turned out, Pasquale’s intuition was right. After the temporary lull in contractions, they began to speed up again, and soon, Louise was in full labor, nothing false about it. Despite all of the buildup, the four years of trying to conceive, the months of in vitro, and the nine months of pregnancy, the birth was a relatively uneventful affair. Louise was in labor for twenty hours, but once she was given an epidural and injected with Pitocin, it seemed like everything happened in one quick blur.

“Okay, Louise. I’m going to need you to push,” the doctor said.

Louise did as she was told, summoning all the might in her little body to free an even littler one into the world.

“All right. I can see the head!”

“You’re doing it, Nunu!” Pasquale said as he brushed the hair out of Louise’s face. “You’re almost there!”

“He’s right, Louise,” Dr. Dotto said. “Come on. Just one more big push!”

Louise, though numb and exhausted, obliged and gave one last huge push before collapsing back on the hospital bed.

“Oh my God! You did it, Louise!” Pasquale exclaimed before the sound of a screaming baby drowned everything else out.

The doctor stood, and with him was the most beautiful sight Pasquale and Louise had ever seen. In his arms was the tiny gift they’d always wanted, wailing and covered in the remains of childbirth, and smaller than either of them could have possibly imagined. There, in that doctor’s arms, was exactly what they had been waiting for their whole lives: Hope Olivia Buzzelli. “Mr. and Mrs. Buzzelli, congratulations! It’s a beautiful baby girl!” announced the doctor.

“Where is she? I want to hold her!” Louise asked pleadingly, and the doctor handed her the tiny, squirming bundle. Louise looked down into the face of her daughter, her Hope, and everything else melted away. Her baby—their baby—was finally there. She could finally hold Hope in her arms. Within seconds, she realized her life was finally complete. She had her husband, her child, and everything she’d always wanted.

“Louise, you…God, you did it.” Pasquale looked down at his two girls in awe.

“We did it, Pasquale. Our baby is finally here! Oh Pasquale, you have to hold her!” With what little strength she had left, Louise held Hope up to her daddy.

Pasquale took the teeny being into his hands. His hands were so large, but suddenly they seemed diminutive when he realized he was holding life in them—his daughter’s life. He looked down upon his baby, and he could not believe what he was feeling. It was as if everything was suddenly…real. He had been so ready for his baby to be born, but the moment he laid eyes on her, the love he felt for her increased exponentially. He had loved her so much already, even when she was just a grainy picture on an ultrasound machine, but now—now that he could hold her and smell her and look at her tiny…everything… “I can’t…I can’t believe…” He could not get the words out.

“I know! She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Louise said.

He handed the baby back to his wife and stood by her side. They both remained in silence, needing to say nothing more. The love between them and for their little one was so strong that nothing either of them could have said would have done it justice. So instead, they just sat together in that hospital room on November 18, 2001, truly together for the first time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Welcome to the Family

“My grandma says that when a baby sleeps, they dream about angels. And now that I have met all of you…you are the angels I have dreamt about. Before I go to bed each night, I’ll ask Jesus to watch you through the day and through the night, until you wake in morning’s light. God bless you all!”

~ Louise Buzzelli

It was two weeks after Hope was born, and Pasquale found himself once again sitting on the couch with his eyes open and images of planes, skyscrapers, explosions, and impossibly thick clouds of smoke reflected in them. He was holding the remote in his right hand, but that was only out of habit. As much as he wanted to, he just could not bring himself to change the channel or turn the blasted thing off. He just watched, over and over again, until eventually his eyelids started to feel too heavy and began to close.

“P...”

Pasquale jerked awake and saw Louise standing a few feet from him.

“It’s after midnight. Are you coming to bed?”

“Oh..yeah.” He rubbed his eyes and tried, though he new it was futile, to clear his head of the images that were flashing through his mind. “I’m sorry. I’ll be up in a minute, Louise.”

“Okay. Remember, we have the press conference tomorrow,” Louise reminded, trying to ignore her concern that he was still sitting alone in the dark, almost obsessively watching footage from that day, even with a new baby sleeping upstairs.

“Yeah, yeah. I remember.”

“All right. Just try not to be up too late, okay?”

“I won’t. I’ll be upstairs in a few minutes, I promise.”

Louise nodded and left the room.

Pasquale looked back at the TV and was overcome with severe self-loathing. What the hell is wrong with me? What am I doing, sitting here while my wife is upstairs with our newborn baby? We waited so long for Hope. Now she’s here, and I can’t get myself together. I just sit here, like a freakingjerk!I am such a loser, sitting here like a mope when I am the lucky one. What about Pat? Steve? What about everyone who di...they lost everything. They would not be sitting on a couch, wasting their lives. God! Why can’t I clear my head? Why can’t I just go back to providing for my family? I can’t even do that. I can’t be a good husband, and I certainly am not being a good father to that beautiful little girl up there. WHY CAN’T I FIX THIS?!

With these punishing thoughts racing through his head, he did finally manage to pull his tired frame off of the couch, but before he went in to lie with Louise, he stopped to look at Hope.She is so, so beautiful. Look at her! Look at MY baby girl. God, I love her...but why can’t I feel close to her like I want to? Why do I feel so numb about everything when I am not feeling angry or thinking about punching those cowards in their faces until they are a pulp? God...just please, God, I know I don’t normally pray for myself, and I said I would only ask you to keep my family safe. I know I shouldn’t be asking you for anything else after you...after I...after everything that happened. But please...help me to get past this. Help me to connect with my daughter in the way I want to—to be the father I should, the father and husband my girls deserve...

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale stood before the elevator, dressed in a navy suit and a dark red tie, carrying a briefcase. Though he didn’t know why, he felt quite content that morning, so much so that he could not stop himself from whistling as he waited. He heard a ding,and the doors slid open to invite him inside. He looked around at the men sorrounding him and thought he recognized them, though he was not sure. He was struck by how tall they all were, and he found it hard to make out their faces. He smiled at them, but they did not smile back at him; rather, they started laughing. That should have made Pasquale feel more comfortable, but it had the opposite effect. There was no joy in the way they laughed, as if it those chuckles were nothing more than a sound they made, without any meaning attached to it or humor or happiness behind it. As they cackled mirthlessly, Pasquale noticed their oddly shaped teeth; they seemed more like daggers, long, shiny, and sharp. He started to feel threatened, so he brought his briefcase up to his chest, squeezing it tight just in case.

The elevator bell made another dutiful ding, and the men around him began filing out. He watched them as they seemingly glided across the floor, their long tan robes lightly brushing the floor behind them, and he noticed he could not see their hands because the sleeves of their tan shirts, which hung down past their fingertips. Though the men showed no outward signs of being aggressive, he felt there was definitely something amiss about them, something wrong with them. He could almost feel them wishing harm on him and the people he loved. He was not proud of his eagerness to retreat, but he wanted to get away from those men very badly. Why won’t this damn elevator close?

Pasquale stood, transfixed, and watched as the tall men with the funny teeth walked toward two shorter men, both of whom had their backs turned. While he did not know why or how, Pasquale had the sense that the short men were different; they were like him, while the tall men wanted to harm them. He heard the tallest of the robed men call out to the shorter two, but he could not understand the words he was using. The two men turned around to face the tall men, and Pasquale could just make out their faces. He dropped his briefcase and tried to call out to them. Though Pasquale kept calling for them,but the ones he took as his friends did not seem to be able to hear him.

The robed man closest to him turned to face Pasquale. Pasquale was confused because the man’s face was so blurry that he could make out nothing but the man’s dark brown eyes. Pasquale felt panic overcome him as he looked into those eyes; they were cold, almost dead looking, like a shark’s in a feeding frenzy, as if there was nothing behind them. The robed man leered at Pasquale for a moment before raising his hand. He pointed one finger at Pasquale, then slowly raised it to his neck and made a slashing motion. Pasquale’s eyes went wide, and the man brought his finger to his mouth and said “Shhhh...”

Suddenly, the elevator doors slammed shut, and everything went dark. Pasquale could see nothing, but he felt the sickening sensation that he was falling—that everything had just crumbled out from under him. Oh God! Not again! Please, God! He began feeling very hot and could feel the walls pressing in around him. He closed his eyes tight and thought,This is it. This time, I am going to die. Shit! It’s...it’s happenening again!

Pasquale awoke, drenched in sweat and twisted up in the sheets of his bed. He felt around him, and his hand, desperate to cling to anything real, found Louise. He breathed a sigh of relief before dragging himself out of bed for yet another day hampered by the fog of sleep deprivation and lingering nightmares.

~ ♦ ~

Things had not slowed down for the Buzzellis since they’d brought Hope home, and it seemed that the moment they returned home from the hospital they were back to dealing with unfortunate obligations from the aftermath 9/11. No matter how hard Pasquale tried to escape it, to move on and get past it, it seemed he was constantly pulled back into reliving it, most often by people he had never even met. Fortunately, there were a few things he was happy to do, such as the day he was able to meet the firemen who were responsible for pulling him from the burning rubble of Ground Zero.

Kathryn had put together a press conference, to be held at FDNY Rescue 5 Staten Island, on Clove Road, on November 30, 2001, just twelve days after little Hope Buzzelli had come into the world.[4] It would bring Pasquale and his rescuers together for the first time since the day of the attacks. They would be reunited in front of the press. Of course that was not the ideal scenario for everyone, but they still felt it was important enough to meet, so they ignored the indignity of doing it in front of a bunch of cameras and media.

The presence of the media made Pasquale uneasy as well. He did not feel he had done anything special and did not want to be deified for surviving, but the chance to personally thank the men who’d risked their own lives to save his was far too appealing to pass up, in spite of the press interrogations and the nonstop recording and flashing of cameras. Louise was also a bit unhappy with the timing of everything, as she was still quite sore from giving birth just a couple of weeks before, but she felt strongly enough that the meeting should take place that she ignored her own physical pain—just as Pasquale ignored his inner aching.

Just before they left to meet Pasquale’s rescuers, Louise gave her husband one last hug, “Are you sure you can do this, P.?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Are you okay?” Pasquale asked.

“God, yes! I cannot wait to meet them and just thank them…maybe give them a hug or invite them over for dinner or something.” Louise could hardly contain the emotions that were bouncing around inside of her. She was happy, excited, nervous, hyper, tired, and even a bit apprehensive all at once. She was worried about how Pasquale would handle the emotions that would come with the meeting, but not even that worry could put a damper on her enthusiasm. Once and for all, she would be able to express her gratitude to the men who’d help to spare her from what she thought was certain to be her fate: a lifetime of mourning the man who completed her. “Oh…do you have the gifts for the firemen?” she asked.

“Yeah. You put them in those fancy bags, right?”

Louise smiled at Pasquale’s lack of knowledge of all things cute and decorative. “Yes, that’s them. I think that’s everything. Your mother should be here any minute. I’m so glad Mama Buzzelli is coming.”

“Yeah, I know. She’s always such a big help,” Pasquale said.

“I know. I wouldn’t miss this for the world…but I’m still so sore. Thank God she’ll be able to help with Hope and everything. Anyway, you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Pasquale said as he reached down to pick his baby up out of her crib. “All right, Hope. Let’s get Nonna and go meet the firemen!”

~ ♦ ~

Kathryn waited, hoping everything would go according to plan. When she’d initially set up the press conference, she’d expected it would be a tearful greeting followed by lots of hugs and well-wishes, but now she was not so sure. When Kathryn had first found Pasquale, she’d thought it would be a healing moment for Michael. She had been sure he’d be thrilled.

“You did what?” Michael asked when Kathryn told him the news—that she’d found the many they’d pulled from the rubble. “Why would you do that? Why would you go looking for him?”

“Are you serious?” she asked, dumbfounded and already feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. “Why do you think I did it, so you could share an ice cream cone? I did it so you could meet the guy you helped save!”

“I never asked you to do that, Kath—”

“You don’t want to meet his wife and his newborn daughter?”

“It’s not that, and you know it.”

“Maybe I don’t know it,” she said, tears starting to fill her eyes. “Maybe I have no idea what is going on in your head. Why don’t you want to meet Pasquale and his family?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to meet them. It’s just…” He searched around for the right words to describe what he felt. “Look, we didn’t save him so he would thank us. I don’t do my job for gratitude.”

“Michael, I never said you—”

“What kind of message do you think this will send?” he asked, cutting her off. Without waiting for an answer he went on. “A lot of good men and women died that day. I should have, but somehow, for some reason, I did not. I don’t want a bunch of people thinking I am special for doing my job, because what the hell does that imply about the men and women who risked their asses just like I did and were not lucky enough to find somebody alive? What does that imply about the men and women and the kids who weren’t lucky enough to get out? I mean, really, we thought we’d find hundreds, if not thousands of people. We found one. One, Kath! I am so happy we found him, and it’s great that he’s around to be with his wife and his new baby, but there were so many we did not find, and I don’t want to disrespect them.”

“Jesus, Michael. This man just wants to meet you and just shake your hand. That doesn’t mean anything bad about anyone else. All it means is that this guy is very thankful to be alive, and he knows you and the others who pulled him out of that hell are a big reason why. No one wants to disrespect any of those who died. He just wants to say thanks, and you know what? I think it will be good for the guys, good to remind you all why you went through such hell. Whether you’ll admit it or not, whether you ask for it or not, you guys need to be reminded that what you went through was not in vain. You saved this man’s life, and he deserves the chance to thank you all!”

Eventually, after letting it settle in, Michael felt sure enough that there was nothing disrespectful about the meeting and agreed to be there. Nevertheless, his initial reaction sparked some apprehension in Kathryn, and she couldn’t help worrying something might go wrong, something that might ruin what was meant to be a joyful occasion. As she thought about that, she saw the Buzzellis arrive. One look at that man—the man her boyfriend had helped to pull from the wreckage—his beautiful wife, their adorable baby, and the mother who still had her son, and all those negative thoughts were pushed from her mind.

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale, Louise, Hope, and Antonia were supposed to arrive at 11:00 a.m. but got there early, so they circled the block. When they came back around Pasquale’s jaw dropped. “Holy crap! Do you see that?” he asked rhetorically.

Lining the street was a sea of reporters and news cameras. He tried to spot the firemen through the throng, but he could not. As the car approached, the scoop-hungry crowd turned, and cameras started flashing away, film rolling and reporters talking into their microphones.

“Oh my God!” Louise said in awe. She shook her head and turned to Pasquale. “Are you ready for this?”

He shook his head but reached for the door handle anyway. If he was going to have to deal with the downside of the reaction to his survival even on a day of thanks, he would have to do it quickly, hoping to endure as little pain as possible. Like the blinding flash of those countless cameras, though, it all blasted him at once. What do I do now? What could possibly be enough? He knew the answer: Nothing. Nothing he ever did would be enough, but he settled on a smile to mask his torment.

They made their way through the hordes of media and into the firehouse. Inside, Pasquale spotted his rescuers almost immediately. He did not even know their names, but he remembered their faces and their voices so vividly.

“That’s him! Pasquale!” the youngest-looking of the firemen exclaimed, extending his hand and laughing. “Pasquale, my name is Mike Morabito!” Mike shook Pasquale’s hand, then pulled him into a big hug. Mike had a boyish look to him, fresh-faced, with the kind of smile that made Pasquale feel welcome immediately.

After they released their brotherly embrace, the remainder of the heroes, the firefighters, surrounded Pasquale and introduced themselves. Michael Lyons patted Pasquale on the back and greeted him in his thick Irish brogue, and Jimmy Keisling, whose handlebar mustache fit his biker personality, positively glowed as he hugged Pasquale.

John Drury, the tallest of them all, greeted Pasquale last. “Now, where’re that wife and daughter of yours?” he asked jovially.

Pasquale turned to Louise, who looked positively awash in emotion.

“Look, Hope! These are the men who saved your daddy. These are the men who brought him home to me the same night!” she said to the baby before holding her up for all of them to see.

“Yeah, she gets emotional, this one,” Pasquale said, smiling humbly.

The men laughed as they greeted Louise and baby Hope.

After Louise thanked them all individually and they began talking amongst themselves, Louise spotted Kathryn. They hadn’t yet met face to face, and Louise was thrilled to finally get to meet her and thank her in person.

After they said their hellos, it was time for the cameras to come on and for the media to ask their questions.

Pasquale was asked to recount the story for what felt like the millionth time, but he did so on that day with no hesitation. He could not thank the firemen enough and was happy to tell stories of their heroism, as opposed to the one he’d been asked to tell so many times—just the story of what happened to him.

After he was finished, Louise read a letter to the firemen, which finished in a tearful anecdote: “My grandma says that when a baby sleeps, they dream about angels. And now that I have met all of you…you are the angels I have dreamt about. Before I go to bed each night, I’ll ask Jesus to watch you through the day and through the night, until you wake in morning’s light.” She turned to face them all and said, “God bless you all!”

The media members finished up by allowing each of the firemen to say a few words before they left. As the cameras were being put away, the men who had saved Pasquale revealed one last surprise for the Buzzellis.

“Hey, we all like to cook,” Jimmy said. “I may not look like much, but—”

“He really is short, isn’t he?” John quipped, interrupting his fellow hero.

“Yeah, with that bald dome of yours, I wouldn’t be making jokes,” Jimmy fired back before going on. “Anyway, I am a hell of a cook, and we were all wondering if you would like to join us for a meal, here at the firehouse?”

“Oh, guys, you don’t have to go to all that trouble!” Louise said graciously. “You have already done so much for us—more than we could ever ask!”

“Meh, it’s no trouble at all,” Mike offered in his Brooklyn accent that made Louise feel instantly at home. “We cook for our family, and we’d like to cook for you.”

“All right,” Pasquale conceded, nodding politely in thanks, “as long as you don’t mind me cooking something for you someday. I have a secret recipe for barbecue baby back ribs!.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael asked. “You’re gonna have to let me in on that!”

And, just like that, the Buzzellis were welcomed into the family, the brotherhood that made up the New York Fire Department.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Too Many PEOPLE

“What words could I say?

Thoughts of you with each passing day,

to do this alone, his name etched in stone…

Tell me why, God.

What’s going on in this world?

Fathers have died, God.

Please give them the strength to go on…”

~ Louise Buzzelli

(“Hope”)

Louise sat at the piano, holding baby Hope close with one hand and pecking the keys with the other. She played the same notes over and over again—one single melody. The pattern kept repeating in her mind, and she played it again and again, terrified that if she didn’t, she’d forget. She worried the tune would flee her mind and escape forever if she did not continue the repetition. It was something she knew she couldn’t lose; if it did get away from her, surely the anguish and the guilt would overwhelm her.

~ ♦ ~

“NEW LIFE, NEW HOPE” the big block letters of the headline read. Underneath, the subheading read, “Their husbands died on Sept. 11. Their babies were born afterward. Meet 31 brave women who are rebuilding their lives.” While the words would naturally draw most curious readers to the story, it was the picture above those words that brought Louise to a halt. She didn’t even need to read the headline. One look at the photograph, which spanned the entire front and back cover of PEOPLE Magazine, all those smiling women holding their brand new babies, and she already knew what the article was about.              

At that moment, Louise was standing in Shop Rite, at the checkout counter, with Hope in the front part of the shopping cart, surrounded by hundreds of busy shoppers, and her heart just fell into her shoes. A moment earlier, she’d been fine. She’d been going about her daily routine, trying to figure out what to do for dinner, but a glance at that magazine gave her a jolt, had her feeling an all-too-familiar pit inside. Her heart broke into a million pieces at that moment; she already knew it would never be whole again, not while those widows and their babies were out there. My God! she thought. I knew they were out there, but seeing them? Those sweet faces. She wanted to scream right there next to the candy bars and gossip rags. She wanted to fall to her knees and wail, smacking her fists against the hard linoleum, and just scream for those women.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Are you in line to check out?” a woman behind Louise asked.

And with that, Louise was snapped out of her reverie long enough to pay for her groceries and load them into her car. She sped all the way home, praying that Hope would remain asleep long enough for her to read the article, to devour every word of it and every name of every widow and child left behind. Hope obliged, and as soon as Louise was safely inside of her house, she sat down on the couch and absorbed every word, crying the whole time.

God, that agony! That unendurable, unbearable pain. I know, because I felt it for a few hours, but these women? They still feel it every single day. She had known all along that they were out there, and she’d already felt a profound sadness for them, but they and their precious babies had faces now, names, and that made it all too real to the woman who, but for a miracle, could have easily been among them.

They watched those Towers fall just like I did. They saw their husbands, the fathers of those babies, die. Their men will never come home. Those daddies will never get to feel the miracle Pasquale and I felt together, holding Hope in our arms the first time. I felt that loss, that horror and helplessness for a time, but it actually happened to them. They will never see their husbands again, and what about those children?

Those babies will never meet their fathers! Oh my God! Why?! They will never get to hug their daddies! They will never get to hear their fathers read them a bedtime story or feel the warmth of his strong, safe hands holding theirs. They’ll never know Daddy’s gentle kiss on their little foreheads as he tucks them in. Those mothers now have to raise their children without their husbands. How could this happen…and why?!             

~ ♦ ~

What the hell did I just do? Pasquale thought as he stood with his knuckles bruised, looking at the imprint of his fist in the sheetrock. How has it come to this? How did I get here, to this point? What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t even…God, I can’t control myself anymore.

Life had been coasting at a steady downward spiral for Pasquale since 9/11, but he’d never imagined it drag him so low. He was not sleeping well and still woke up most nights after dreaming of being trapped in that godforsaken elevator, but he’d been able to keep himself under control, for the most part. He’d even managed to recover from the nightmares without waking Louise or Hope. He’d learned to hide the growing sense of paranoia left in the wake of those horrible nightmares, and in the mornings, he’d learned to lie to Louise for her own sake: she always asked him how well he had slept, and he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth. He couldn’t bear to let her know that he was still falling apart..

But while he hid his pain, his rage from others, he knew he was not fine. The sheetrock he’d just demolished could attest to the fact that Pasquale Buzzelli was really only hanging by an ever-thinning thread. He had been easing back into his normal workload, not thriving but at least getting by. Everyone seemed to be adjusting well to their new workspace, and he was seemingly no different—until a relatively innocuous comment brought the rage out of him.

“Hey, Pasquale,” his supervisor greeted him. “How are your projects coming along?”

“Not too bad. I’m getting close to wrapping up a couple of them.”

“Good, good. It is really great that we have you back. Turnaround got a bit slow around here with you gone. It doesn’t help that we have to take over the workload of the others. To be honest, one of them really did not know what he was doing, and—”

A switch flipped in Pasquale as his boss droned on, and it showed on his face.

His supervisor’s eyes went wide at the look on Pasquale’s face, and he brought his hand to his mouth. “Oh God, Pasquale,” he said, sitting down and looking horrified. “I’m so sor…uh, I didn’t mean anything by…I mean, uh—”

Pasquale did not give him the chance to finish his sentence. He just stood and left the room as the rage grew inside him. Who the hell does he think he is? Does he think he can just stand there and say shit like that about them, about the men who died that day? Goddamn it!

He closed his eyes tightly and swung his fist blindly. Nanoseconds later, he felt his fist connect with the wall in front of him. He was too angry to feel pain, so he kept swinging. The slap of his knuckles against the sheetrock seemed to pacify the monster raging inside of him, and he just couldn’t stop.

After a few moments of pummeling the defenseless wall, he stood still, trying to calm down, and he came to a realization: I need help. I lie to Louise every morning, because I’m not fine—nowhere near it. I need rest, and I need a time-out. I-I need to get away from my job for a while and fix whatever the hell is wrong with me.

After suffering silently for so long, trying to deal with his problems internally and without being a burden to anyone else, Pasquale had reached his breaking point. He had become keenly aware that there was a necessary healing process, and he couldn’t get by with skipping it or taking shortcuts. It was on that day, spawned by those seemingly cold words of his boss and the realization of his own anger coming to fruition, that Pasquale made the decision to take a leave of absence from work. As much as he hated to admit it, he could not recover on his own. He could not go back to being the man he wanted to be, not without help, and he was going to get that help for his own sake as well as the sake of his family. He owed that to them, to himself, and to all those who were lost that day. He’d survived, he’d lived, and he owed it to everyone to live well.

~ ♦ ~

Louise was beside herself that evening. She couldn’t get the image of the PEOPLE Magazine cover out of her head. She’d spent months watching over her husband, witnessing his pain, but at the moment when she saw that magazine cover, she began to feel her own hurt for the very first time. She was not naïve about her good fortune; she knew she’d come frighteningly close to being among those women on the cover, devastated inside while having to be brave for their children on the outside. She just wanted to help them, to take away their pain, but she knew she could do nothing to bring their husbands back.

It was more than difficult to cope with all the feelings swirling around inside her. As she dealt with the internal struggles and her compassion for those who’d not been so fortunate, all the while she had to be a good daughter-in-law, a good friend, a good wife, and—most of all—a good mother. It was nearly impossible to effectively juggle so many roles while she felt such agony inside. She did not feel as if she could tell anyone else about her pain, they would not understand. She couldn’t dare tell Pasquale, for he was hurting too badly himself. She was aware that everyone expected her to feel like the luckiest woman in the world, and she did, but that did not change the pain she felt when she thought of those less-than-lucky mothers, those widows holding their fatherless little ones. She did not know where to turn, and that night she found herself sitting with Hope at the piano.

Music had always been something shared between Louise and her own mother; it was one of the things that made their relationship special. It was also something she’d given up on, for the most part, when her beloved mother had passed on, but there, that night, with her heart broken, the music soothed her soul again. There, enjoying the feel of her own little one nestled up against her, surrounded by the peaceful softness of those pale blue walls in their living room, the keys on the old, antique piano that Pasquale had restored for her beckoned to her, and Louise began to play again…

CHAPTER THIRTY

A Mother’s Prayer

“I only play it for myself, Hope, and God for the first week, her on my lap, at the piano…

but eventually, I can’t hold it in anymore…”

~ Louise Buzzelli

Pasquale opened the front door of his home and tried to sneak inside quietly. It was mid afternoon, and he did not want to wake Hope if she was napping. As he crept into the house, he thought he heard music playing, but when he came into the kitchen, everything was quiet. He opened the refrigerator, hoping to find some leftovers to snack on.

Just then, Louise came in, carrying Hope.

“Hey. How are my girls?” Pasquale asked.

“We are great, aren’t we, Hope?” Louise passed Hope to her daddy and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Hope was just helping me with something in the living room. How are you? How did your first therapy session go?”

“Well…fine, I guess.” Pasquale immediately started feeling uncomfortable. He had been raised to believe that men should be pillars of strength for their families, and, right or wrong, he worried that people would see his need for therapy as a sign of weakness. Psychotherapy was not something the Buzzellis did, but then, no other Buzzellis had gone through what he had. Still, as much as he was sure he needed it, he still worried about the stigma it would carry.

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale took a deep breath before stepping into John’s office. John was his boss at the Port Authority and was one of the few people Pasquale was willing to talk to about what he was feeling. John had an open-door policy and made sure his employees knew that he cared about their needs and concerns. Even though Pasquale knew John would not judge him and would keep everything confidential, Pasquale still worried about how John would react to what he had to say.

“Hey, John,” Pasquale said as he entered the office. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Hi, Pasquale! Great to see you!” John stood and shook Pasquale’s hand. “Have a seat. What’s on your mind?”

“Thank you, John.” Pasquale paused, then continued, “Uh, well, I-I’m not sure how to say this—”

“You can say whatever you want to me. You know I want all of you to feel comfortable coming to me with any issues you are dealing with.”

“Thanks, John. Well, you already know what happened. I punched a hole in the freaking wall. To be honest, that was not even the low point of all of this. I have never felt like this. When I am not angry, I’m depressed, and when I’m not depressed…well, damn. I’m always depressed. I cannot even sleep through the night. I am always tired because I wake up two or three times a night feeling really nervous, like someone is chasing me, even though I know they are not. When I finally wake up after managing a few hours of sleep, I always have this knot in my stomach. I get scared every time I think about driving to work, driving to the city. I worry all the time. I am even concerned this is going to stop me from ever advancing here, and that means I won’t be able to take care of my family, of Louise and Hope. I just…I feel horrible, John. Fuck, the only thing I can do normally is eat, and as I’m sure you can tell by looking at me, I do way too much of that. I just… I need a break, I think. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Whoa, Pasquale.” John shook his head, and Pasquale’s heart started to race.

Oh God! What if I said too much? What if fires me right now?             

“First off,” John continued, “don’t you dare worry about your job here. To tell you the truth, I was wondering how you were able to come back to work so quickly. It didn’t make sense. What you went through is unimaginable. I am glad you came to me with this, and I promise it will stay between us, but I hope you will not hesitate to talk to a professional about this.”

“I don’t know, John. I’m not sure—”

“I really hope you will think about it, Pasquale. In fact, I have a number around here somewhere.” He began rifling through the papers on his desk. “Ah, here it is.” He scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Pasquale. “That’s the number of Mosse. She’s helping a friend of mine who’s having trouble coping with everything that happened. Maybe she can help you too. Like Pat used to say, we’ve got to ‘work hard and play hard.’ Well, you definitely need a break from working hard. You need to take some time off from work and spend it with your family. That daughter of yours needs you to get better, all right?”

“Wow, John. Are you sure?”

“I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And don’t worry. This will in no way affect your reputation around here. You are great at your job, and we’re happy to have you, but we want you at 100 percent, okay?”

“Thanks again, John.” Pasquale could not believe how lucky he was to have such an amazing and understanding boss. Really, everyone he worked with was so kind and considerate, and he was very grateful for that. He promised John that he would think about therapy and took his leave.

~ ♦ ~

“So he gave you the time off?” Louise asked that night when Pasquale told her about his conversation with John.

“Yeah. He says I should take as long as I need and that it will not affect my job at all.”

“That’s so great of him, Pasquale! You really do deserve some time to get better.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said.” Pasquale took a deep breath before his next sentence. “He also gave me the number of a therapist.”

“A therapist? Really?”

“He said she’s helping a friend of his, trying to help him cope with something like what I’m feeling. What do you think, Nunu?”

Louise thought about it for a moment. She definitely thought it was a good idea. She could tell her husband was not himself, was not well, but she did not want to seem too eager for him to get therapy, just in case that might offend him. “You know what? I think it couldn’t hurt, could it? I mean, maybe you can try it, and if you don’t like it, just stop going. There isn’t a downside, really, and if it helps you…well, I mean, that would be great.”

~ ♦ ~

“How was your doctor? Is she a nice lady?” Louise asked Pasquale, hoping he would open up a little rather than just grunting short answers at her.

“Yeah, the doctor is great.”

“Mosse Burns, huh? That’s an unusual name. I wonder where it comes from.”

“I didn’t think to ask her that.”

“You should next time. I bet there’s an interesting story behind it. Anyway, did she have anything to say?”

“What do you mean?” Pasquale asked, his back turned to her. He already knew what she meant, but he was not at all eager to share his diagnosis with anyone—not even her. He did not want Louise to know there was something wrong with her husband.

“What the hell do you think I mean?” Louise asked, laughing. “Did she say why you haven’t been feeling well?”

Pasquale could not help but smile to himself. He was very grateful to his seemingly all-knowing wife for understating his issues. He had tried his best to suffer in silence, but he knew she had witnessed him at his lowest; she’d seen just how quickly he was spiraling down, and it had to be worrying her to death. However, Louise also knew how much pride her husband took in being a strong man who would never let his family down. So, when she said he had not been “feeling well,” Pasquale understood that she was doing her best to protect his feelings and his masculinity. After a moment of silent appreciation for his wife knowing him so well, he answered, “Well, Dr. Burns says I have something called ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’”

“PTSD?” Louise asked. “Hmm. I’ve heard about that on the news. They say a lot of people have been feeling that. Isn’t that what happens to soldiers returning from war?”

“Yeah, that’s what she said. She said I also have something called ‘survivor’s guilt.’ It means I don’t know how to deal with being the one who actually made it out of the building.”

Louise thought about his words for a moment; that “survivor’s guilt” was something she could relate to, especially after seeing the PEOPLE Magazine cover. She thanked God every day for saving her husband, but she also felt guilty that she had her husband and those other women did not. For once, she knew exactly how her husband was feeling, so she decided she’d return the favor and open up to him a bit. “P., can you come into the living room please?” She led him into the blue piano room, and she sat down in front of the keys.

He was perplexed, but he said nothing. He simply stood there, waiting to see what she wanted to show him.

Louise was worried about how he would react, fearing that it might bring every depressing thought back to him. But damn it. If I don’t start playing now, I’ll never have the courage to do it again! And with that, she closed her eyes and started playing the song, the one she’d titled, “A Mother’s Prayer.” She sang sweetly as she played: “Sunshine in the sky…all I could ask was why…”

As his wife played and sang the melody and the words, that outpouring of the pain in her heart, Pasquale began to feel overwhelmed. He started to feel overwhelmed and had to sit down as she sang…

“Sunshine in the sky…

All I could ask was why.

Would I see you again?

Would my heart ever mend?

But I had Hope to believe

that you would never leave.

Angels there, by your side,

saved and kept you alive.

Tell me why, God.

What’s going on in this world?

Fathers have died, God,

but you saved the man I adore…

Sunshine in her smile…

She’s got her daddy’s eyes,

eyes blue as the sky,

eyes that never lie.

Tell me why, God.

What’s going on in this world?

Fathers have died, God.

Our children are what we live for…

What words could I say?

Thoughts of you with each passing day…

To do this alone,

his name etched in stone…

Tell me why, God.

What’s going on in this world?

Fathers have died, God.

Please give them the strength to go on…

Maybe there is Hope

for mothers I know,

blessed by a small child,

sunshine in their smile…”

Jesus Christ! I-I didn’t know, Pasquale thought as he listened to the words pouring out of his wife in that lovely, angelic, melodic voice of hers. I didn’t know she felt this way. God, her voice is so beautiful, I can’t believe I have her here with me.

Pasquale had been feeling distant from everyone, even his wife, but as he listened to her sing her song, her “Mother’s Prayer,” he remembered exactly why he had fallen in love with her. No matter how bad things got, she always found the strength to go on, but what was more amazing to him was how she somehow still managed to take care of everyone else, even as she suffered.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Singing Songs

“I think music in itself is healing. It’s an explosive expression of humanity. It’s something we are all touched by. No matter what culture we’re from, everyone loves music.”

~ Billy Joel

Louise stood alone in a room that would not have been large enough for her to lie down in. A dim light hung overhead, casting a yellow glow over her. On a music stand in front of her were two pictures spread out so she could see their faces. One of them held lyrics, printed on a picture of Pasquale holding Hope in his arms; the other was the same photo that had been haunting her for months: thirty-one women, all seemingly trying their hardest to put on brave faces as they clung to their newborn babies.

Louise looked down at them as she held her hands over the speakers on the headset she was wearing. Even now, months later, that picture broke her heart. Her eyes filled with tears when she thought about the agony those women surely had to endure daily, every time they saw little pieces and reminders of their torn-away husbands in their children’s tiny eyes or faces. I don’t know. I just don’t know where this is going, but I swear, I can’t sleep at night, thinking of every one of you. I can’t just let this one go, and I will do whatever I can to somehow, in some way try to help you and your babies, she thought as the music started playing in her ears and she disappeared into the greatest sanctuary she had ever known…

~ ♦ ~

A few days after Louise played the song for Pasquale, Cousin Joanne, Ralph and his wife Nara, and their friends Mike and Dara came over. The Martires and the Buzzellis were best friends, and the bond between them had grown even stronger when their children, Hope and little Michael, were born just three hours apart. Mike and Dara were one of the few couples who could understand what Louise and Pasquale were dealing with after 9/11. Mike, an NYPD lieutenant at Brooklyn North, had seen the carnage firsthand; if it were possible that anything good could come from such a tragedy, it was that those two families had grown even closer.

Because life had become so hectic for all of them, they had not had a chance to meet the new additions to each other’s families after the babies were born. The Martires lived in the Bronx, while the Buzzellis made their home in New Jersey. In fact, Mike and Dara had only laid eyes on Hope for the first time on TV, when the press conference of Kathryn’s doing was aired. Now that things were finally slowing down, the friends found time to set aside to get together and dote on their new little babies, the evening after the Memorial Day parade. After some catching up, they all sat down for dinner.

“Oh, it is so nice to be together again!” Louise said as they ate. “We have missed you guys so much. And little Michael is already such a big boy, Dara! Look at those cheeks!”

“I know. It’s been way too long, and I’ve missed my goddaughter,” Dara said. “Hope is such a little doll, like an angel. After all you guys went through, I bet you can’t believe she’s here and things are starting to finally calm down”

“I know. I want to spend every last minute with her. Sometimes I just watch her sleep and try to take it all in,” Louise said, smiling at the little girl she held in her arms

“So, what have you both been up to?” Mike asked. “In between feedings and changing diapers, of course!”

“Well, I am sure you guys can relate, but we have been so busy with everything since…it happened,” Louise said, speaking again of the dreaded and unmentionable “it.”

“How are you holding up?” Dara asked Pasquale.

“I am doing all right,” Pasquale said, “but my wife’s always keeping busy. You should hear the song she wrote about everything.”

“Louise, you wrote a song?!” Dara exclaimed. “Oh my God! You have to let us hear it!”

“Yeah, let’s hear what you got,” Ralph teased.

“Oh, no. It’s really nothing—”

“Whatever! What do you mean it’s ‘nothing.’ When the heck did you find time to write a song? You have to let me hear it,” Dara ordered, smiling.

Louise felt a little awkward about it, but seeing the look of anticipation on Dara’s face convinced her to give it a shot.

After they finished dinner, they all gathered in the living room. Louise sat down in front of the black, upright, high-back piano, a once-dilapidated old thing that Pasquale had restored into something beautiful and had perfectly tuned for his wife. She closed her eyes for a moment, thought of what the song meant to her, and began to play. As she sang the words she’d written, it was as if they were coming from somewhere deep inside of her. She did not even feel the eyes of her family and friends upon her; it was as if she was in another place, alone, just pouring her heart out in hopes that the universe would hear her cry. She did not open her eyes again until the last note was played, and when she looked around, she was almost surprised to see them all sitting there with her.

“Louise…” Dara began with tears in her eyes. “My God, that was so…beautiful!”

“Really?” Louise asked, humbled and a bit shy about it.

“Hell yeah!” Ralph said in true boisterous Ralph fashion. “People need to hear that song! You gotta do something with that!”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just had to…I wanted to do something for these women and their babies,” she said as she held up the PEOPLE Magazine and showed them the cover

“Wow, cuz. It’s so…amazing,” Joanne said. “Can I see that?”

“Sure. These are the women who were pregnant before 9/11. Their babies were born after…” She turned to the pages inside and started telling Joanne and everyone in her living room about each one of them, reciting their stories as if she knew all thirty-one of them personally.

“Can we see it?” Dara asked.

Mike, who’d been silent the whole time, finally spoke up. “Louise,” he said, “I can’t even begin to understand what those women went through—what you went through on that day. I don’t know how they go on. It must be so…hard.”

“Me neither,” Louise said. “I can’t imagine what I would have done if I’d have lost Pasquale.” Her eyes started to well up with tears.

“You know what?” Mike said after a few seconds reflecting on her words. “People should hear this song. It’s just so…important.” His face made it clear that his mind was racing a mile a minute. “I’ll tell you what. I have a friend in Brooklyn. Name’s Gaspare, and he has a recording studio. Let me make a phone call. I don’t know if he still does it, but back when I used to DJ, we produced a few groups. We even had a record label. Maybe I can get you some time in the studio to record that…so people besides us can hear it.”

~ ♦ ~

Louise thought back on that as she sat and listened to her song with Dara and Kathryn at Step One Recording Studios in Brooklyn, New York. Mike Martire and Gaspare Valenti produced and mixed the song, ultimately titled a simple “Hope.” She still could not believe that after so much time mourning for those women, she was finally able to do something tangible, something that might actually help them. For the first time since she’d seen the PEOPLE Magazine cover in that checkout line, and after all those months of reading over and over each story, nearly memorizing every word, she really felt that somehow, in some small way, she could make a difference. She knew she could do nothing to bring back the husbands and fathers who’d died that day, but at least she was doing something—something positive that might make a difference for the ones those men had left behind.

A little while later, the song was properly mixed, and Louise could not believe it: her song, recorded professionally, thanks to her friend Mike, who cared enough to get involved and make it happen. Although Louise wrote and sang the song, she did not possess the piano skills she thought were needed to do it justice and really get its message across (when she’d played the song to herself, she’d always imagined hearing Billy Joel play it and Faith Hill singing it), so Mike called in an old friend who was an amazing piano player, Joseph Reina. He played the keyboard track and brought the song to a whole new level. Louise was ecstatic over how professional it sounded.

Everyone involved was so happy to hear the finished product; Louise was especially moved to finally have a copy of the song in her hands. It was a truly magical moment for her, one she would never forget. Even as the hour grew late and 5:00 a.m. approached, she was full of the kind of energy that can only come from true creative bliss. After all of that time, she finally had something she could give to the women who meant the world to her. She’d always had a passion for music, thanks much to her mother and those Shirley Temple tunes when she was a child, and she’d recently developed a passion for those widows. “Hope” was a way for Louise Buzzelli to put both of her passions to work for the good of others.

Sadly, for Louise and Pasquale, it would be one of the few bright spots they would have to look back on. As even the greatest of intentions sometimes do, things began taking a turn for the worse.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Thanksgiving in July

“Think of it more as a thanksgiving day rather than a celebration or a birthday party. So many friends and family have supported us this past year. Why not have them all here, together, in one place, so we can thank them for all their support? They all want to be here and are thankful that you are alive.”

~ Louise Buzzelli

Louise stood on the deck on the back of her home and tried her best to take it all in. Almost 200 people, all of them friends and family, were there, spread out between the front and back yards or in the home. The children enjoyed the petting zoo and pony rides, while the adults devoured the roasted pig and other delicacies that had been so immaculately prepared by a professional chef. Some were taking advantage of the open bar. It was July 27, 2002, and all of them had come for one reason: a celebration. It was humbling that so many had come from far and wide to celebrate Pasquale’s birthday and, more importantly, his life. Everyone there knew how close they’d come to losing him, and they wanted to come together and show him just how much he meant to them.

~ ♦ ~

“We need to talk,” Louise said to Pasquale.

He paused the racing game he was playing on Xbox and looked up from the couch. “Uh-oh,” Pasquale said, smirking and knowing no husband ever wants to hear those words from his wife. “What now?”

Louise laughed; he looked like an overgrown teenager sitting there with his Xbox controller, and the look on his face said he thought he was about to get grounded. “Don’t look at me like that.” She smacked him flirtatiously on the shoulder. “I want to talk about your birthday.”

“What about it?” he asked, letting out an exaggerated groan.

“Stop with the attitude!” she said, smiling. “I want to have a big party for you.”

“You know I don’t like a big deal made over my birthday, Nunu!”

“Well, it’s not always about what you want,” she joked. “P. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but your birthday this year is a big deal. I mean, you don’t turn thirty-three every year anyway, and with everything that has happened this year…well, I just think it would be an amazing thing to get everyone back together.”

“I know, Louise.” Pasquale sighed. “I know you like to make a big deal out of these things, but it makes me uncomfortable to expect everyone to come from all over just for me.”

“Well, don’t think about it like that then. Think about it like, uh…” She snapped her fingers, searching for the right word. “Think of it like a reunion! Yeah, a big reunion that just happens to be going on during your birthday. Think of it more as a thanksgiving day rather than a celebration or a birthday party. So many friends and family have supported us this past year. Why not have them all here, together, in one place, so we can thank them for all their support? They all want to be here and are thankful that you are alive.”

He thought about this for a moment before reluctantly agreeing. “Okay, but only as long as everyone knows they don’t need to go to any trouble to be here…and no gifts! I don’t want anyone bringing gifts.”

~ ♦ ~

Louise immediately got to work planning the celebration. She decided to call it “Thanksgiving in July,” because Pasquale’s birthday was in July, and she and all those who would be invited were so thankful that he was alive. More than any other birthday he’d had before, it would be a celebration of his life, of his survival. She printed up fliers on red, white, and blue paper (keeping in line with the patriotic summer holidays) and mailed them to everyone she thought would want to attend. Eventually, the guest list rose to over 200 people, their wedding list and many more, and Louise had to figure out how to make sure they were all comfortable at her house.

To shield people from the July sun, she rented tents. They were set up in the front and back yards, along with Porta-Johns and a petting zoo. Peter Olinto, in addition to being a lawyer, enjoyed serving as a DJ, and he was in charge of the music. Louise had different “stations” set up all over the yard for face-painting and fun games for the kids to play. One of her best high school friends, Rory (a teacher at the time), came to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar, along with a selection of other great kids’ books to the young attendees, and the children seemed to love “Story with Rory” time. A professional chef was hired to feed everyone, and a bartender and wait staff served and cleaned up. Relatives came from all over, even some from as far away as Florida and Italy, and Father Pat Mulewski, who’d led the candlelight memorial at St Pius X after 9/11, agreed to come and bless the party.

As things got into full swing, Mike Martire suggested that Louise should play her song, “Hope,” for everyone. He thought it a good idea for their closest family and friends to be a part of it, before it went out to the rest of the world. After some convincing, she obliged. Everyone listened intently as the song played, and they passed around the CD case, admiring the cover of Hope’s little hand holding on to Louise’s finger, something Kathryn had designed. As the song played, there was hardly a dry eye to be seen. It was such an emotional moment that it overwhelmed Louise. When the song finished, she could not hold it in any longer, and she collapsed into the arms of her sister, Susan.

Louise buried her face in Susan’s shoulder and let out all of the emotion she’d bottling inside. Susan held her and stroked her hair as Louise cried tears of catharsis. As she cried, Louise felt something come over her. It was as if she was being comforted by her father’s spirit. It was like Harry was there, as if he hadn’t died from that apartment fire in 2000, and he was there, hugging his little girl, telling her everything was all going to be all right.

After Louise gathered herself, she felt much better. She looked around the party and noticed Pasquale’s Uncle Orazio, an Italian Military (Esercito Italiano) veteran, sitting in silence. She approached him and could see that he’d been especially moved by the song.

Uncle Orazio had been through a lot in his life, so as they talked about the song and Pasquale’s and Louise’s struggles, he offered Louise some advice on how to deal with Pasquale after everything that had happened. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of things in my life,” he said with tears in his eyes. “No one here, other than Pasquale, knows what happened in that building. God only knows what he has seen. None of us can understand what he witnessed. It may be hard, but you just have to let him deal with things in his own time. You never know what may bring back those memories. Even the smallest comment may trigger those thoughts. As hard as it may be, you just have to understand and let him grieve.”

Louise thought about his words as she watched her husband from afar. She saw him there, standing by the pool with the other men, all fully dressed in slacks and dress shoes. He was smiling and laughing, an occurrence that had become all too rare, but there he was with a drink in one hand and a smile on his face, just enjoying some guy talk while Nico passed out cigars.

Pasquale could not see his cousin Ralph sneaking up behind him. Ralph brought his finger to his lips and made a shushing gesture. Pasquale noticed the men looking behind him and turned just as Ralph charged at him, grabbed him around the waist, and shoved him into the pool, clothes and all. The momentum carried Ralph in with him.

“What the hell?!” Pasquale shouted as his head emerged from the water.

“Gotcha, cuz!” Ralph shouted back.

“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?” Pasquale said as he grabbed his cousin and dunked him under the water. And there they were, like two kids, best friends just horsing around in the pool like they were ten years old again.

The other guys around the pool, Cousin Richie, Bill, Andy, Anthony, Big Tony, and Mauro (who was ultimately responsible for Song for Hope being picked up by Tower Records) all laughed, and one by one, they all started shoving each other into the pool, not wanting to miss out on the fun. They either got pushed in or jumped right in, dress shoes, cell phones, watches, wallets, and all.

Louise watched the boyish men splashing in the clear blue, and she could not help but remember the last time she’d stared at the pool so intently. That day had been the lowest of her life, but now, that water she’d thought of submerging herself beneath and letting it swallow her hopelessness—that same water was full of friendship, fun, and frolicking. Maybe things are finally back to normal, she thought. Maybe we can go back to being a happy family…

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Don’t Trust Media!

“Don’t trust the media!”

~ Pasquale Buzzelli

It was 2:00 a.m., and Pasquale found himself sitting in the exact same green-checkered spot he’d been sitting in one year before. The TV was on, but there was no sound coming from it. The only sound that penetrated the absolute silence that surrounded that couch was the occasional sob, emanating from Louise as she sat with her face buried in Pasquale’s chest.

What do I do now? Louise thought. How do I just forget everything?

~ ♦ ~

The song was finished. It had been recorded and approved by everyone Louise knew, but now came the question: What do I do now? She’d poured her heart and soul into the song, and now that it was finished, she needed to find a next step, so it could really do some good. She had written the song to heal herself, and now she felt a duty to give back to the women who’d inspired her to create those lyrics and that melody.

Mike Martire suggested that they start a foundation dedicated to the widows. Louise loved the idea, and The Song for Hope Foundation was born. Every cent of the proceeds from the CD sales would go toward helping the widows who were pregnant on 9/11. They’d even managed to get Tower Records onboard, and they agreed to sell Song for Hope in stores, so more proceeds could be generated for the Foundation. Because of all of the media attention Pasquale continued to get, Louise assumed that raising money for the widows would be easy; unfortunately, she was mistaken.

As the one-year anniversary approached, Pasquale was being bombarded with requests to do interviews and rehash his story over and over again. He wished they would leave him alone. He was just tired of repeating it, of having to remember it over and over again, and of answering questions he’d been trying to forget about; it was too painful. Louise was worried that he was internalizing the pain and becoming self-destructive, evidenced by his quick weight gain.

Pasquale’s desire to escape the constant requests to retell his story was at odds with their goals with for The Song for Hope Foundation. Louise desired a way to get the word out and needed the media to do that. She was hopeful that the attention Pasquale was still getting would shine a direct light on the song. That, in turn, would raise money for the widows. She found out rather quickly though that those who could help her promote the charity had little interest in doing so.

She’d spent the entirety of June and most of July perfecting the song and recording it. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned it serving as a catalyst that would ignite support for the widows. That became her sole focus, even infringing upon her responsibilities as a wife and mother. She loved Hope and Pasquale so much, but the pain she felt for the widows was so pervasive that she could not enjoy having her husband and daughter as much as she should have. She truly hoped that helping those widows would assuage her guilt and allow her to move past it. It was this desire to move on that caused her to push forward with the song, even if it was at the expense of her own marriage.

“Louise, please. I just want to go back to normal,” Pasquale pleaded with her one night in August.

“But, P., how can you say that?” she asked him, stunned that he could not see how important it was for them to help others heal from their own losses. “You are so lucky. We are so lucky. Can’t you see that? I have you, and Hope has a father, but what about them? Those people don’t have what we have. We have to help those women because we have been so blessed.”

“Louise, I know you want to help them, and of course I do too. It’s just…fuck, I just want things to be normal again. I don’t want to think about this shit anymore. I can’t think about it anymore,” he finished, a look of defeat showing not only on his face, but also in the way his shoulders sagged and his head drooped.

“Look, I know you don’t want to do this, but I have to. I mean…” Louise stopped herself short. She was so passionate about it that she almost crossed a line she would not be able to cross back over again. The truth was, she cared that Pasquale was hurting, but she was angry with him for wanting to give up. No matter what it took, no matter the cost, she was determined to continue in her quest to push the charity, whether Pasquale was on board, or not. “You do what you want, Pasquale, but I am not giving up.”

Pasquale looked at her when she said it, doing his best to disguise how badly her words had hurt him. He knew she was not trying to hurt him, but she just could not stop. “Fine. If that’s what you really want…” Pasquale sighed. “But I am NOT going to keep doing this, Louise. I mean it. I will do whatever interviews you have already set up. I’ll give you one whole day, so line them all up at once—just one day, and that’s it. I will even give you the rest of the week to schedule whatever you want, but after that, I am done. Seriously, I am done.” He stood up from the couch and left Louise there, alone, to contemplate his ultimatum.

Louise was angry at first, but not at Pasquale. She knew he had been through more than she could ever fathom. Nevertheless, she just could not give up. She decided she would take the week and set up as much as she could, then figure out a way to stop herself after that. Louise and Pasquale never sought media attention, but they could not escape it. Outside of a phone call Louise made to PEOPLE Magazine, every bit of contact they had with any media outlet was initiated by whatever particular reporter wanted to hear Pasquale’s story. Pasquale would have preferred to do no interviews, but he decided he’d do them if The Song for Hope Foundation was mentioned, just so he could help raise money for the widows his wife so cared about. If they would not mention the Foundation his wife had worked so hard to establish, Pasquale would not do the interview. Sometimes though, even that caused problems. Sometimes, the only end of that bargain that would be held up would be Pasquale’s.

~ ♦ ~

The week went by quickly, but Louise managed to schedule plenty of press dates for them. Every news outlet, reporter, radio station, and TV channel that wanted Pasquale to rehash 9/11 was told he would do it, as long as they mentioned Song for Hope. It was not a happy medium, but it was a compromise Pasquale could handle. He wanted very badly to help those women and to do it for his wife, so if it meant he had to deal with the pain of telling his story, he was willing to make that sacrifice. Well, at least once this round is over, I can be done with this, he told himself as a pep talk before each and every trying interview.

Louise was growing more frustrated by the day. Regardless of how worthy and selfless her cause was, the press seemed to have no interest in helping her spread the word. Even with the one bargaining chip she had, her husband’s amazing story, she still found many outlets resistant. “What the hell is wrong with these people?” Louise said to Kathryn one day. “Don’t they know how important it is to help those women?”

“I know. It’s bullshit!” Kathryn said.

Louise knew her indignation was not feigned. Kathryn had adopted the Song for Hope cause as her own, and aside from Louise, Kathryn may have been the most passionate person about the Foundation.

“I can’t believe some of these people. Oh, and speaking of PEOPLE, did I tell you what happened with the lady from PEOPLE Magazine when I contacted them about the Foundation?”

“No, but I’m gonna guess this is not going to be good news,” Kathryn said, the anger already bubbling inside of her. She knew intimately the horrors that those poor survivors had to live with, so whenever she heard stories of people dismissing them, it caused the anger to rise inside of her.

“Okay, so I get through to a lady named Liz McNeal,” Louise began, sitting forward in her seat as if she was ready to pounce on Liz, had she been present. “I told her what we are trying to do and how we have already gotten a good start but that I just know if PEOPLE were to help us, we could really start raising a lot of money for those women. I told her their magazine inspired the song and the Foundation and that I would really appreciate it if they could mention it in their 9/11 coverage. Do you know what she asked me?”

Kathryn shook her head out of habit, even though she knew the question was rhetorical.

“She asked me, this ‘Liz’ lady…” Louise went on with a fire in her eyes and redness creeping up into her face, “…she asked me, ‘Well, how much money have you managed to raise?’ So I told her, ‘Well, almost $10,000,’ which I know is not much, but I think it’s pretty good start considering we have been doing that all by ourselves, through church and family and friends. You will not believe what she said to that. Do you know what she said?”

“No…what?”

“She said to me ‘PEOPLE Magazine features success stories of people who have made it. When you raise $50,000 to $100,000, give me a call,’ and then she hung up the phone!”

“Oh my God!” Kathryn exclaimed. “How the hell could someone be so heartless?”

Louise did not have an answer. It made her so angry that even talking about it made her hands shake.

“You know what?” Kathryn said. “We don’t need them! You have a bunch of interviews set up, and I just know when they mention the song, people will buy the CD, Louise. People are going to want to give back to the widows.”              

~ ♦ ~

A few weeks after the PEOPLE Magazine incident, Louise received a phone call from, of all people, Liz McNeal. “Hello, Mrs. Buzzelli. I am calling to see if your husband would mind helping us out with an article we are working on here at PEOPLE for the one-year anniversary of 9/11.”

Right away, Louise realized that Liz most likely did not even remember the conversation that had occurred between them weeks earlier. Rather than hanging up on her on the spot, as she was quite tempted to do, Louise decided to at least listen to what she had to say. “What do you need?” Louise asked.

“Well, we are doing a feature called ‘How 9/11 Changed My Life,’ and I thought it would be great if Pasquale could give us a quote!” she said, her voice saccharine sweet this time around, as opposed to the cold, distant tone she’d spoken with before, back when Louise had called asking her for a favor.

“Really? You want a quote from Pasquale? Is that all?”

“Well, yes…and no,” Liz said, sounding not unlike a game show host who was getting ready to present Louise with a huge, life-changing prize.

“What else then?” Louise asked, her patience waning.

“Well…”

~ ♦ ~

“Can you believe the balls on that one?!” Louise asked Pasquale over the phone a couple of hours later. “Not only did she want a quote from you, but she had the…the gall to ask me if I could help her get in contact with more widows, even after the way she responded to the Foundation!”

“Why would she want to contact more of them?” Pasquale asked.

“To use them, just like they did the other women. Remember when I told you P., what one of them told me? She said PEOPLE made them stand in the cold along the river at 5:00 a.m. just so they could get a freaking picture with the sun in the right spot! Those idiots made those moms stand in the cold with their little babies, freezing their asses off, all for a stupid picture, like some publicity stunt. And now they want me to set them up with more women they can exploit? I know why though. The anniversary is approaching, and they want to talk about 9/11 ‘cause they have to, you know, strike when the iron is hot or so I’m told. It is so disgusting, P.!”

“I know, Louise. It’s downright sick,” Pasquale said, his blood pressure rising.

“You ain’t kidding. I can’t believe they want a quote from you after the way they treated our request for help with the Foundation.”

“Yeah, well, I have a quote for them.”

“What could you possibly have to say to them?”

“Louise, here it is, and I want you to quote me exactly…”

~ ♦ ~

“Hey, Liz,” Louise said, doing her best to mimic the ultra-sweet tone Liz had used earlier, “I was just calling to let you know that Pasquale said he would love to be quoted in this article.”

“Really? That’s great!”

“Yeah, I have the quote here with me. Do you want it now?”

“Sure! Just let me get a pen and paper.”

Louise said nothing as she listened to the sound of rustling on the other end of the line. Liz wouldn’t need to write it down, for it wasn’t that long, but she figured she may as well toy with the woman for a moment.

“Okay, I’m ready. What’s Pasquale have to say?”

“All right, and he said he wants this quoted directly,” Louise paused for confirmation.

“Of course, of course!”

“This is what he said…” Louise paused again for effect and cleared her throat. “He said to tell you his quote is…‘Don’t trust the media!’”

“Uh…what?”

“His quote is, ‘Don’t trust the media!’ Oh, and he says not to forget the exclamation point at the end.”

“Um, I’m sorry, Mrs. Buzzelli, but I don’t think we can use that quote. We were thinking more along the lines of—”

“Well, that’s his quote, ‘Don’t trust the media!’” Louise said one last time before she politely hung up the phone, feeling a bit victorious.

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale avoided the dresser mirror as he made his way across the bedroom. He opened the closet door, hoping to find one belt that would fit him. He avoided mirrors whenever he could, purposely averting his eyes when he passed one, not wanting to catch a glimpse of the man he’d become. Even when he left the house, which was less and less often now, a store window presented problems, some angled so he couldn’t avoid the image of the huge man in oversized Champion sweatshirt walking toward him, trying to stride confidently, as he used to, but looking only hunted and haunted by the few ghosts he could name and by hundreds more he couldn’t.

Pasquale pulled one belt from a hook and threaded it through the taut loops of the black dress pants his Louise had laid out for him; pants in a size he’d never imagined he might wear. The belt slid easily through the first loop, on to the loop at his left side, on to the back loop, but even there he could barely pull it around to the other side. As if this were one more cautionary finger pushed into his face, the belt refused to accept that that was who he’d become, a man who had outgrown his world, his body too big for the life he used to lead.

Angrily, he pulled the belt from the loops and threw it on the bed. He yanked yet another belt from the hook—black or brown, he no longer cared that it matched his pants. He no longer cared whether or not he would make a good impression at CNN. None of it mattered. That stubborn and mocking belt wouldn’t go around his middle either. For a moment, he stood where he was, the belt hanging uselessly, and hung his head. His chest tightened until every breath had to be pulled in deeply and let out in short gasps.

Pasquale backed away from the closet. Nothing in this familiar bedroom belonged to who he was now, this new and unfamiliar self—a miracle man, a blessed man, a man so lucky the outside world applauded him for surviving. As if a huge maw had opened and swallowed him, there was no life left that he recognized. The weight had come on so rapidly. As he lay, day after day, on the family room sofa, he protected himself—baby-like—with food and with the TV, which fed his insatiable need to watch the buildings fall again and again. Food soothed him, and even more food quieted the growling inside.

“Pasquale, the limo from CNN is here. Are you ready?” Louise called from the base of the stairs. There was that new thing in her voice, a kind of timidity he’d only recently heard, hiding behind her impatience. The beauty did not want to aggravate the beast.

He would never hurt her, but she didn’t seem as sure. Great. Another guilt to pile on the guilt I already can’t shake. Louise’s life had been changed too, and she hadn’t asked for any of it. In her short life, she’d been through the loss of her mother, then her father. She’d had to give up the music career she had always dreamt of. All Pasquale had ever wanted was to make her happy and safe, but now he was making her suffer because he, himself, was suffering so.

It had been an amazing thing, that they had found each other—a kind of magic they had trouble believing in at first. Now, everything seemed hidden behind an opaque barricade. They looked for each other around that wall. They yelled across that wall. They reached out. But they no longer met as easily as they once had.

Pasquale didn’t answer Louise. He moved back until his legs hit the bed behind him. He put up a hand, holding the “thing” away. His face warmed. If he could have, he would have told her to go to hell. He would have told her to do the CNN interview herself. What does any of it mean to me anyway? Nothing! Just another damn TV show. Another interview with a news anchor who barely knows my story and doesn’t really care. Another reporter who doesn’t really want to know the real story behind and beyond that day, but just wants to feed the sensation-hungry masses whatever fodder he could dig up at Pasquale’s expense. “Lucky man. You survived the attack, Pasquale. It’s a miracle...”

“Pasquale?” Louise’s worried voice came up the stairs.

He would have to move, to make a decision about the belt. He knew if she came up to fetch him and hurry him along, she’d find him sitting at the edge of the bed, immobilized by something as simple and insignificant of having no belt to wear. There was another thing against him: letting her down, letting himself down. If he didn’t leave the house, if he saw no one, if he never did another TV interview or gave another story to a newspaper, that would have been just fine with him. It was Louise who wouldn’t let him pull into himself, where he was safe. “Be right there!” he called out.

I’ve never let her down before, he scolded himself. This is not who I am. This isn’t what a strong man, a good husband and father, does. His parents valued strength in a man. They’d worked hard, his father so many years in construction and his mother in a sweatshop making coats. They’d struggled to give him a good childhood and even a car that he’d accidentally destroyed. He’d paid them back by landing a good, respectable job with the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, marrying his beautiful wife, and presenting them with their wonderful grandchild. They had been so proud of him—their only son, now living the American dream.

But Pasquale’s mind was now empty of those familiar dreams. All of it was just…gone. It was as if the path he’d been on—the straight, narrow path to success and happiness, a trajectory guaranteeing both him and Louise that the years ahead would lead to children, security, peace—all of that had melted in a moment of horror.

His self-disgust was beyond measure. His hands clenched hard at his sides. Breathing became even more difficult, blocked by that growing lump in his chest.

He stood and realized there would be no belt. Do I even need one? Will my pants fall down if I don’t wear one? He went to the closet and pulled out a new dark suit jacket to wear. With only a single button, he pulled it closed around him. No one would see; no one would notice that he was beltless—that there was nothing holding his ensemble in place. As if he wore a costume, he could hide down in this huge man’s body he wore.

Anger took hold and shook him as he pulled the suit coat around him. He reached for the dresser edge, held on, and bowed his head. He prayed that the hatred and anger and hopelessness would leave him in time for…For what? The interview at CNN? More questions? Another head- and heart-stabbing repetition of my fall, in vivid detail, as if I’m telling some urban legend?

“Pasquale, we’ve got to go!”

Louise’s sweet voice grated along his nerves. He didn’t want understanding. What he needed was silence. He needed the terrible voices in his head to stop terrorizing him. He wanted his old life back and yearned for everything he’d been promised to be true. It was his right! Don’t I pray and go to church? Aren’t I faithful to my wife? Dedicated to my family and friends? All he’d ever wanted, more than anything, was to make his family proud of him. Instead, he’d dragged them into hell.

He left the bedroom to stand at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, you look nice, Pasquale.” Louise smiled up from the bottom of the curved staircase. Her green eyes were filled with the worry she wore every day now, but her pretty, small face was written over with hope.

Pasquale stared down at her, the woman he loved. Suddenly, it was as if Louise were his torturer. She was the one who made him go to those hellish interrogations. She was the one who said it would be good for him to get out, that people wanted and needed to hear his story. “A bright spot in all of this destruction,” she’d said, trying to encourage him. No more after this, he promised himself. It has to stop.

He moved back from the top step, breathing hard. His hands found the bottom of the heavy, silver-framed mirror that Louise had hung at the top of the stairs. His fingers closed over the thick bottom edge. He breathed harder and, with his eyes closed, pulled the large mirror from the wall, taking its full weight into his hands. He turned and lifted the mirror above his head. His arms shook as he held it there. With the mirror poised high above him, he had one objective: He needed to smash something. He needed to break something, just as he was now broken .Everything…it all has to stop! He held the mirror higher.

“Pasquale?” she whispered as she came toward him up the stairs, one step at a time. “Pasquale…don’t!”

The mirror shook in his hands. His mouth went dry. His throat almost closed so that every breath he drew was a knife cutting into his flesh.

“Pasquale…” Her voice had gone soft, cajoling, loving.

He brought the mirror down a little, then lowered it a bit more. The face he looked into wasn’t Louise’s, but his own: wild blue eyes; pitifully drawn, pasty skin; pathetic anger in his reflection.

He saw himself.

He saw who he’d become.

He saw a cursed man full of rage.

He saw a man wracked with guilt because he’d survived while his friends had died.

He saw…the luckiest man on Earth.

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale and Louise sat in a CNN green room, waiting patiently to be interviewed. They were initially supposed to be interviewed by Walter Cronkite or Wolf Blitzer, but those plans were changed without the Buzzellis’ consent.

“Now, who are you and why are you here?” asked a woman named Sheila.

“We are supposed to be interviewed—” Louise began but was rudely cut off before she could finish.

“Well, what do you have for me?” Sheila demanded, as if she was in the biggest hurry. “Let’s see some pictures, home videos, or something we can use as footage.”

“Uh, they didn’t tell us to bring anything,” Louise said. “I’m sorry. Had I known, I would have prepared—”

“Okay. Well, take a seat, and we’ll come and get you when Aaron is ready.”

“Aaron?” Pasquale asked. “I thought we were supposed to be interviewed by—”

“Neither of them could make it,” she said, cutting them off again before leaving the room.

Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse, because Walter Cronkite and Wolf Blitzer were unable to do the interview, the job was given to Aaron Brown, a man who was gaining fame by riding the coattails of the 9/11 aftermath. His first day on air with CNN had been, interestingly enough, 9/11, and while he seemed more than happy to ride the wave that came along with being one of the faces of that day’s coverage, he was less than kind to the Buzzellis. When he was told he would be conducting the interview, he did not want to do it. “I do not have time for this. And who are these people anyway?” the Buzzellis heard him say.

It was particularly hurtful to them, especially since it was the third interview Pasquale and Louise would do for CNN; all of those interviews had been requested by the network, time and time again. This time, they were being treated like an inconvenience. It was yet another low moment in a day filled with them, courtesy of the media.

As they waited, Pasquale thought back on what would become known as “the belt incident.” He felt those familiar pangs of embarrassment. He had come so close to losing control, and he felt the presence of an all-too-familiar foe: guilt. I have to get this under control, he told himself. No matter what, I have to fix this. Louise…she may not understand, but this is it.

These thoughts comforted him as he did the interview when the time finally came. Just get through this, and then you can tell her, once and for all, that you are done. He kept telling himself this over and over as the interview went on. He barely paid attention to what they were saying as he steeled himself for what he knew was ahead.

I almost lost it. I almost hurt the woman I love more than anything. God, help me stop this…and please help Louise understand.

His thoughts were interrupted every few moments by the cookie-cutter questions Aaron Brown kept spewing at him, the same as every other interview. Pasquale answered the questions grudgingly before returning to his brooding. The only thing that managed to snap him out of his malaise was when Aaron Brown repeated a question he should have already known the answer to—a question he’d asked in the previous interview. “So tell me, Pasquale, how did you manage to get out of the building before it collapsed?” Aaron Brown asked.

Pasquale snapped back to reality and looked at him, dumbfounded. “Like I told you, I didn’t get out. I fell with the building,” Pasquale answered for the second time.

Pasquale completely checked out after that. If he doesn’t even care enough to keep his questions straight, why should I care at all?

~ ♦ ~

This has to stop, he thought on the way home from the interview. When the car pulled up in front of the Buzzelli house, Pasquale had hoped it would all be over, but even that was not the end. They had been asked to go inside and gather pictures, home movies, and other mementos to replace the ones CNN had had the audacity to lose. Louise did as they asked without complaining, even though it was 2:00 a.m. on September 9. She did everything she was asked, but it was all for nothing. After the whole disaster at CNN, the interview was never aired. Everything the Buzzellis went through for CNN was in vain.

Pasquale sat alone on the couch, waiting and steeling himself for the difficult things he knew he had to say. Once the car left and Hope was safely in bed, he sought out Louise. “Louise, we have to talk,” he told her.

She knew what was coming, but that did not make it easier to accept.

“You know what happened earlier,” he began. “You saw me. You know me better than anyone, so you have to know I am not right. I am fucking losing it. I am in trouble, Louise. We are in trouble.”

“I know, Pasquale,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I know, but what would you have me do? I can’t stop thinking of those women. I can’t stop thinking that if I do not do something to help them, then I am wasting this great gift I was given when you came home.”

“Louise, I can’t do this anymore. It is killing me, it is ruining us. We can’t keep spending all of our time trying to help others when we need to fix ourselves.” He looked at her. Even then, at his lowest of lows, he could not help but get a flutter in his stomach as he gazed into her green eyes. “Nunu, I love you so much. You know that. I would do anything for you, anything, and I know you know I am telling the truth when I say that. So you must know that when I say I can’t do this anymore—the interviews, the media, the Foundation—I really, truly can’t go on. I can’t handle this being our life.”

“P., I-I know,” she said, tears in her eyes, “but I can’t go on knowing those women are out there. How do I stop those thoughts? How do I ignore them?”

“I don’t know the answer to that, ” Pasquale said. He let out a slow sigh. “We need to take time for us. We just…have to.”

“Oh God! Just…what do I do now?!” Louise began to weep. Her shoulders heaved, and she started sobbing uncontrollably. She fell onto the couch next to Pasquale and buried her face in his chest and just cried.

He held her tight and stroked her hair. She could not stop weeping, and he knew he could not take away her tears. They sat together on that couch, her crying, him whispering softly, trying his best to comfort her. Though they both felt alone and abandoned by the world, at the same time, they were truly together again for the first time since the day that Hope had been born.              

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

In the Sanctuary of an Angel

“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched.

They must be felt with the heart.”

~ Helen Keller

After the CNN interview, Pasquale and Louise held firm in their agreement to avoid the media. They had a few interviews lined up, but after they fulfilled those obligations, they refused the requests that came in almost daily. They even turned down requests from several titans of the media industry, including the late Peter Jennings; the ABC World News Tonight anchor tried very hard to convince them to come into New York on the anniversary to do an interview, but they refused. As a last-ditch attempt, he offered to send a news truck to their home and do the interview via satellite. Still, Louise and Pasquale refused. They wanted the anniversary to be a day strictly for remembrance and family, not one filled with jumping through hoops for media exposure. Even though Louise knew it would keep them from being able to promote The Song for Hope Foundation like she wanted to, she also felt some relief in not having to be at the media’s beck and call anymore.

Pasquale refused to do anything on the first anniversary of September 11. For the Buzzellis, it was a sacred day, a day of mourning and to pay respect to the fallen, and that was exactly what they planned to do. The only concession he made was to do an interview in the morning for The Howard Stern Show. They wanted him to go into New York City to appear on the radio, but he refused. He told them he would do it over the phone, but Pasquale would not enter the city on September 11.

The interview was planned well in advance, and even though Pasquale and Louise wanted to stay away from everything on the anniversary, they honored their commitment. It was scheduled in the early morning, so it would not interfere with their day of honoring the lost; plus, the chance to have The Song for Hope Foundation mentioned on such a widely received show of national recognition was too much to pass up. Not only would millions of listeners hear about the Foundation, but various people with the power to help promote it would be listening and calling in. The producers even tried to entice Pasquale into the interview by saying it would be a great chance for the Foundation to get some exposure, telling him that people like Billy Joel, Bon Jovi, and then-Mayor Giuliani would be listening and hear the song. But yet again, the Buzzellis came out of a press arrangement with the short end of the stick.

The interview went well, but it did not last long. Howard Stern had to cut it short because Mayor Rudolph Giuliani called in. Pasquale understood and had no problem with the interview being shortened, but was upset when they ultimately failed to play the song. While he disliked the headaches that went along with using the mass media to promote the song, he badly wanted to help Louise raise money. This was yet another case where his story was used for ratings, but when it came time for them to help him help the women who needed it, Pasquale was left out in the cold.

“This is unbelievable!” Pasquale said to Louise when the show ended and the song had not been played.

“I know. Why does this keep happening?” Louise said, her head in her hands. “We just want to help, and the people who could help us do that, just…won’t.”

“Fuck this!” Pasquale said, slamming his fist on the table. “I am going to call them tomorrow and let them know that they need to do what they promised!”

And Pasquale did just that. When he called to remind the producers that they’d agreed to play the song and that it was for a great cause, he got Baba Booey. Pasquale told him just how angry he was that they did not do the one small thing they had agreed to when they asked Pasquale to do the show. After some initial resistance, they played the song the very next day. The Buzzellis were grateful for this, but they were also disappointed that the song was not played on the anniversary, because they knew it would not have the same impact a day later.

~ ♦ ~

The anniversary was a difficult day for everyone, but it was especially draining for Pasquale. He spent the day surrounded by family. Louise and Hope were great comforts to him, but there were some things he could only handle alone, mainly paying respect to those close to him who were lost in the attacks one year before.

He drove to their family church alone. When he arrived at St. Pius X, no one was there. He walked halfway down an aisle and randomly picked a wooden pew to sit on. He looked around the church as he absentmindedly fished around in his jacket pockets. Even then, on the saddest of days, he realized how safe a place St. Pius was to him. It truly was a sanctuary. Pasquale was not overly zealous about his faith, but he appreciated the calm that came over him in that sacred building: its white, domed ceiling, held up by earth-tone columns that circled the perimeter of the room; the way the light filled the room big open glass windows; the way that, despite it being a Roman Catholic building, the room felt open and welcoming rather than dark and foreboding. The crucifix displayed on the altar was the center of what the church stood for: Christ with His arms stretched out, welcoming all who came to gather there. The building just made him feel safe, even when the world was not.

He pulled his hand from his pocket and held a scrap of paper. Pasquale looked up at the altar of the church, let out a long breath, and looked back down at the fourteen names, the names of his fallen co-workers. He sat alone for an hour or so, reading each name to himself Jean A. Andrucki, William F. Fallon, Stephen J. Fiorelli, Barry H. Glick, Rosa Gonzalez, Joseph F. Grillo, Patrick A. Hoey, Deborah H. Kaplan, Edward T. Keane, Franco Lalama, Susan Miszkowicz, Kalyan K. Sarkar, Lisa L. Trerotola, and Simon Weiser.

Each time he read a name, he thought of a happy memory or good thought he had about that person; if he did not know the person well, he just pictured their face. In between memories he prayed, all the while crying off and on.

~ ♦ ~

Louise also spent the day in reverence. Unlike Pasquale, however, she felt better with people than in relative solitude. Thus, she went to a candlelight vigil that was held in Westwood, New Jersey. She was invited by the Mayor of Westwood, Skip Kelly, and he asked if they could play the song during the vigil. She agreed, and when the time came for the song to play, she went and stood in a gazebo in the center of the town square. As she waited for the song to play, she looked out at the hundreds of people who’d come to honor the people who were lost one year before. The twinkle of the candles seemed to outshine the stars in the sky and the light they cast on the faces shimmered on the tear streaked faces.

When the song began playing, Louise held Hope in her arms and thought about all of the people who were there: mothers, daughter, fathers, sons, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins—all there, coming together to remember what happened a year before on that awful day. They were there to mourn the lives that were lost, but that was not the only reason. They were also there to support and be supported, to come together and stand strong against an unconquerable enemy: terror. They were there to honor the human spirit, the astounding thing in all good people that makes them consider their fellow man, even in the face of great adversity. There may be no greater example of this spirit, this marvelous trait, than the little girl who approached Louise on that very night.

~ ♦ ~

Louise: After the song was played, as I held my baby girl, Hope, in my arms, I was approached by someone I had never met before. She had to be no older than twelve or thirteen. She had silver braces on her teeth, wore a sweatshirt, and had her hair in a ponytail. She came toward me in the midst of this whole crowd of people and was trying to hand me something. This young girl gave me a charm that said “Hope” on it. It was hers. She took the charm off her very own bracelet, only to give it to me.

When I looked closely at it, I realized what it said. At that moment, I could do nothing but embrace her. I thought to myself, Here is this young girl, whom I don’t even know, and she is giving me a gift from her heart. I can still remember what it felt like to hug her. I didn’t want to let her go. She touched me in such a way that I couldn’t hold back the tears. What I felt inside was pure emotion that I cannot put into words. How could anyone explain to this young girl what happened on 9/11 just a year before? What was going on in the world? At that moment, I felt so humbled that she felt it in her heart to give me something that might make me feel better. It broke my heart.

I will never forget meeting Marisa. She was an angel, sent to me on the day the world stopped—only one year later. Since then, we have become very good friends. She has become a friend and babysitter to Hope and our newest addition, Mia, an overall role-model of what I wish for my own daughters to aspire to one day. She has helped me in so many ways with her creative and artistic ideas. She is kind and patient with both of our children and is always up for a tea party or a game of dress up. The girls absolutely love her. Although we have only known Marisa for a little over four years, we have seen her grow into a respectful and lovely young lady.

Marisa, you are beauty that shines from the inside out. You make this world a brighter place by just being YOU. May you always have an angel on your shoulder to guide you through wherever life takes you.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

His Amazing Grace, Her Saving Grace

“When I saw my daughter Hope and Mary’s daughters play Ring Around a Rosie, somehow seeing that started to heal me. I felt some kind of acceptance that these families and mine were, in some opposite way, connected. I cried, but it was a different kind of cry than I had cried before—so many feelings wrapped in to those little girls holding hands and singing…”

~ Louise Buzzelli

Though both of them doubted they ever would, things did get easier after the first anniversary. It became easier to cope with day-to-day struggle, to not constantly dwell on the haunting memories. The constant feeling of teetering on the brink of a breakdown dissipated, and most importantly, it became easier to be a somewhat of a “normal” family again. Pasquale began to get past his PTSD symptoms, and the once familiar feelings that came with survivor’s guilt were fewer and farther between. Louise was finding it easier to let things go and, having entered therapy, she was finding it possible to accept the pangs of guilt she felt for having her husband in her life.

Having someone to talk to who was not a presence in their everyday life was very important for both Louise and Pasquale. It took someone outside of their situation to help them step back and realize that enjoying their lives did not dishonor those who had lost theirs, that being a happy family was not disrespectful to the survivors who’d lost their loved ones.

Psychologist Mosse Burns was a great comfort to both of them. She helped them to say the things they’d been scared to say before and to remember how important the love between them and the love they had for their daughter was. And finally, she helped them remember how they were before 9/11. They began to heal and fall in love all over again, but for Louise, there was one last thing she had to do before she could really take steps toward healing herself, her life, and her marriage.

~ ♦ ~

After months of working, recording the song, spreading the word about The Song for Hope Foundation, dealing with the media to promote the charity, and the waiting (probably the worst part of all)—after all of that, the day had finally arrived. Louise was going to be face to face with the women who’d been ever present in her mind for more than a year. It was Mother’s Day of 2003, and Louise, with the help of others, would host a luncheon for the women who’d been pregnant on September 11, 2001 and had lost the father of their unborn children in the attacks.

It was an idea that had hatched almost a year earlier, when Louise had first played the song for Mike and Dara Martire, as well their close family and friends. They thought it was a lovely tribute to the women, and they all wanted to take it further. They set up the Foundation and knew all of the proceeds would go to the widows and their babies, but they still felt the need to do more. Louise, especially, knew that she could not become whole again unless she got the chance to meet those women face to face and tell them how much they meant to her. Eventually they came up with the idea for a special day, dedicated solely to those women and their children.

When Louise first asked Pasquale to strongly consider helping with the idea, she was surprised at how enthusiastic he was about helping. He agreed that he would be there with her every step of the way; the only caveat he placed on it was that he could not attend the event. He felt very strongly about helping the women, but he was sure his presence would be a distraction and would detract from the day. He didn’t want them to look at him and be reminded of the men they lost, of their pain. Louise understood and was just happy to be working together on it with her husband. Planning the event with Pasquale was another step toward healing their marriage, and both of them devoted themselves fully to the Mother’s Day Luncheon.

The luncheon received an excellent boost when a lady, a widow herself, contributed a large check to the Foundation. Louise was honored to be able to pass those funds along to the widows and happy to give them all the money from the sales of the Song for Hope CD (which, despite the lack of media support, had sold well). She put together beautiful gift baskets for the moms, filled with gifts donated by Avon Products and Kraft Foods. Those gifts were made possible with the help of some very sincere friends of hers who were employed by those companies: Dennis Rice, Stacey Goodman, and Donna Tucci. Louise was touched to know that they understood the importance of the Song for Hope cause and that they wanted to help in any way they could. Louise’s friends, Rachel and Rory, donated a special book basket from Rory’s company, Schoolwide Books, for the children. Louise planned to give out those baskets, as well as the profits from the CD, in the form of checks in the babies’ names.

Invitations to the event were sent to every widow who had contacted them through the help of ABC’s Primetime. Just getting in touch with any of them was miracle in itself, as they were a very private group. Louise had seen a broadcast of ABC’s Primetime, hosted by Diane Sawyer—an episode called “63 Reasons to Hope.” That particular broadcast featured many of the moms and their children. It gave Louise hope, that through ABC, she could somehow contact that group of moms and let them know about The Song for Hope Foundation. After many weeks of trying to get through to Primetime, Louise received a phone call.

“Hello. Can I speak with Louise?” a woman asked.

“This is Louise.”

“Hi, Louise. My name is Maura Reiley, from ABC.”

“Hello, Maura!” Louise exclaimed. “I have been trying to get a hold of someone for weeks! I saw the story you guys did on ABC Primetime, ‘63 Reasons to Hope,’ and I just knew you could help us!” Louise went on to explain everything to her, from Pasquale’s survival to The Song for Hope Foundation.

Maura listened and was very moved by the story. “I can’t give out the information on the moms, but here’s what we can do,” Maura said. “Send me your information in a letter, and I can pass this along to them. If they want to contact you, they can.”

“Oh, of course. I understand.” Louise said, trying to contain her excitement. “Thank you so much! I appreciate anything you can do!”

Louise couldn’t believe it was actually happening. After so many dead-ends, she was expecting to have another door slammed in her face. This time was different though, and Maura came through. Within a week or so, she started getting phone calls and e-mails. One by one, she was able to get in contact with many of the mothers.

Louise remembered every single mom who contacted her, but the first one she spoke to holds a special place in her heart. When the phone rang, from a number she did not recognize, her heart seemed to skip a beat. “Hello?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Hi. This is Jill. I got this number from Maura at ABC. Can I speak with Louise?”

Louise realized just who she was talking to and started shaking. It felt like she had waited forever for that moment, and now that it had arrived, she felt as if the moment she’d been dreaming of had finally come true. “Oh, hi, Jill.” She tried to sound collected and together as her heart raced. “This is Louise.”

“Hi, Louise! I read your letter, and I could not wait to call you! This is so great what you are trying to do!” Jill said, and Louise could tell she meant it.

They had a great conversation. Jill was extremely friendly and really made Louise feel at ease. Talking to her was like seeing a glimmer of light at the end of a tunnel for Louise. Jill was so positive and strong. Louise had been so looking forward to speaking with the moms, but she’d worried about how they might react to her—the one whose husband had survived. Jill was so kind that all of those fears were erased from her thoughts.

“Well, Louise,” Jill said after a while, “I will let some of the other moms know about The Song for Hope Foundation and have them contact you. It is a really great thing. And please tell your husband we are happy he is here.”

Not all of the conversations Louise had with the mothers were as uplifting, like the time Louise received a call from a woman who’d been on the phone with her husband during his last moments. It is a conversation she will never forget.

They started talking and got the introductions out of the way. After that, the conversation became much heavier. The woman told Louise about how everyone told her that her husband was in “a better place” now and that God knew why it all happened, that it was all part of His plan somehow. “I can’t accept that. I don’t!” the woman said. “There is no better place for him than right here, beside me, raising our son.”

Louise’s heart shattered. She understood exactly what the poor woman meant, and she knew she would have felt exactly the same way. If she’d have lost Pasquale that day, there would have been no way she’d ever believe that there was “a better place” for him other than with her and Hope.

“I remember being on the phone with him while he was inside the Tower. He said he didn’t think he was going to make it out. I told him he would, but he said he didn’t think so. He told me he loved me and the children very much and that they brought him so much happiness in his life, that he could not have asked for anything more…Then he said, ‘I don’t think I am going to make it out. The fire is getting close…’Then there was a long pause, and he said, ‘My shoes are starting to melt…Just always know how much I love you and the kids. I will always be with you.’”

Louise listened to the horrible tale, and there were no words she could even offer. She wanted so badly to reach through the phone and wrap her arms around that woman. She wanted to just hold her and console her, but she couldn’t. There was nothing she could do to take away the widow’s pain. It jolted her back to her own painful memories, back to when she’d talked to Pasquale’s mother on the day it all happened. Just as there was nothing she could say to Antonia then, there was nothing she could say now. So she just listened to the woman and she let her tell her everything—every detail, big and small—that she wanted to talk about. As the two sobbed together, Louise listened to that voice she’d never met before; she understood, because, if only for a few hours, Louise had felt it all for herself. Louise knew the woman just needed someone to listen, to really hear what she had to say. All she could do was listen, and she made sure she heard every word.

Days had gone by, and Louise could not get the image of the woman’s story out of her head. How in the world am I going to help any of these mothers? she thought. Maybe this whole thing is just a stupid idea and it is senseless for me to even think I can make a difference in such a horrific tragedy.

She began to feel very tentative about the whole thing and all they’d gone through to get to that point, but then she received a phone call from another mother, a woman named Mary. Mary and Louise connected right away. Mary was very warm and welcoming toward Louise, and she showed great enthusiasm for what Louise was trying to do. “No one has ever done something like this for us,” Mary said, “just for us, with no reservations or hidden agenda or media influence. After that day…you know, I don’t know how I did it, but I did, and I am glad I am not there anymore. I am glad I did it. And I look at Grace Ann…she is such a gift. We picked the name ‘Grace’ before she was born, and she’s my saving Grace! I just remember he used to say she was going to be his amazing Grace. So thank you for doing this, Louise. I am so looking forward to meeting you and your family. Is it okay if I bring my three daughters?”

“Alison, Katie, and Grace Ann?” Louise said. “Of course! And bring a friend if you like. This event is for you and all your children!”

Mother’s Day was a natural fit, and the luncheon was held on Sunday, May 4, at the Rigoletto Espresso restaurant in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey. Hosted by Susan and Bob Palzer, the event was handled with white gloves. They opened their restaurant to the Mother’s Day event, and it was clear that everything about that day came straight from the hearts of all involved. Susan said of the occasion, “No one knows what it is like, unless you are them, and to do something as small as to make a meal for them…well, it’s our pleasure.”

Louise arrived early to help set up a few things. She placed the beautiful flower arrangements on each table and around the restaurant, donations from Janine Binaghi of Stokes Farms. She set up the gazebo where the children’s guitar player would be, decorating it with festive balloons and streamers. A table in front of the restaurant was stacked with craft materials for the children to make cards, shirts, or even hats for their moms. Though she thought she would be nervous while she waited to face the mothers, she was not; rather, she was excited and bursting with energy.

After what seemed like an eternity to Louise, the guests of honor began arriving. Every few moments, she saw the face of a woman she had only seen on a magazine cover, and each new face evoked the same feeling of elation in Louise. Each time she was able to kiss and hug one of those dear women and their babies was a meaningful moment to her. Of the fifty mothers who contacted Louise, fifteen were able to attend, Louise cherished meeting every single one of them and all of their children. Despite having never met them before, Louise knew every one of their names and greeted them all as old friends.

She had worried about how they would feel about her, but she needn’t have. Within moments of the final mother arriving, the luncheon took on the feel of a family reunion. Those women knew each other and had even become friends through play dates, photo shoots and various media events, but Louise was more of an outsider. That did not matter, for the women were bonded. From the moment the Towers came down, an inexorable link was drawn between them all, and trivialities like first impressions were unimportant. Louise was truly touched by the presence of Pat Hoey’s wife, Eileen, and Steve Fiorelli’s wife and daughter, Terry and Chrissy. She was more than pleased to have them there to be a part of the reunion.

After everyone had time to settle in, Louise stood and said a few words, thanking each of them for attending. They handed out the gift baskets to the children of every mother. After they sat down and ate a delicious meal together, the gathering was moved outside.

Tables had been set up in the charming little park near a statuesque gazebo, and there was a piñata to entertain the children, as well as Miss Roberta, who sang to them, accompanied by her guitar. There was music and a special cake, all the makings of a wonderful, festive occasion, but the best part for Louise was the opportunity to share an afternoon with all of the mothers and their kids so she could get to know each and every one of them. The entire day was one Louise would never forget, but one event in particular stood out as the moment that allowed Louise to become whole once more.

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale could not hear what was going on, but he knew he was seeing something special, a moment when everything that was wrong in his life over the past year and a half would melt away in the bliss and the true healing power of children’s unfettered joy.

He had not been able to bring himself to attend the Mother’s Day Luncheon. He wanted to help the widows, and he feared that his presence would prevent that—that it would be an obstacle that might get in the way of any benefit they might reap from the day. He did not want that day to be a reminder of the tragedy they all bore scars from; rather, it was meant to be a day unencumbered by all of the baggage he always felt he carried with him. He knew it might not been seen as an act of selflessness by some, but he felt his decision not to attend was the right one. Besides, he told himself, by way of justification, it’s Mother’s Day, and I am not a mom.

Still, he wanted to be there, even if he was just on the outside looking in. So, without much fanfare, he made the decision to watch from afar. He spent the afternoon in his car, parked inconspicuously in the parking lot overlooking the gazebo that the outdoor festivities would be centered around.

From that vantage point, he could just make out Louise holding her video camera, pointing it at a group of little girls, one of them his daughter, all holding hands…

~ ♦ ~

Louise stood, watching, with tears in her eyes. She was filled with absolute joy as she saw her Hope holding hands and standing in a circle with Mary’s daughters, Allison, Katie, and Grace Ann. Four little girls, free of the walls that adults put up between themselves and others, unaware that such a thing would even exist, were playing…just playing.

Those sweet, sweet little girls, Louise thought. They don’t know our story. They don’t hold “it” against us…against me…Louise was in awe as the little girls held hands and spun in a circle.

The little girls laughed, an expression of absolute happiness, while the adults sang:

“Ring around a rosie,

a pocketful of posies…

Ashes, ashes…

We all fall down!”

The adults sang and clapped their hands, and the little girls spun, giggling even harder as the climax of the song came closer.

“Ashes, ashes…

We all fall down!”

And the little girls let go of each other’s hands and fell to the ground, their laughter ringing out and entering Louise’s ears. That sound went somewhere deep inside of her, the sound of four little girls laughing as the world around them melted away. All that mattered to them was their game. Spinning and spinning until finally they fell down but never forgetting to get back up again…

EPILOGUE

Getting Back Up Again

“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning,

but anyone can start today and make a new ending.”

~ Maria Robinson

Louise stood under her favorite tree, in the middle of the perfectly green grass that had been beautifully manicured just days before. Behind her was their gorgeous two-story home, standing proudly as it seemed it always had, but on that day, it was hardly recognizable. Louise was waiting, but she was not alone. Brittany, the family dog, sat dutifully by her side while two little girls did their best to keep still as they waited...

~ ♦ ~

Ring...ring...ring...

“Hello?” Louise answered the phone, a trace of panic evident in her voice, sure that she was about to hear bad news. It would have been hard to fault her for feeling a twinge of terror. After all, the last time she’d been awakened so early in the morning by an unexpected phone call, she’d been given the most terrifying news of her life; Pasquale had been on the other line when she answered that early morning call.

“Mrs. Buzzelli?” the voice on the other end asked.

“This is Louise. Who’s this?”

“Hello, Mrs. Buzzelli. I’m a reporter with Channel 7. I was wondering about your reaction to last night’s news.”

“What news?”

“The news of his death, of course!”

“Oh my goodness! Who? Who died? What are you talking about?”

“Oh you haven’t heard? The Navy SEAL Team 6 killed Osama Bin Laden!”

“What?”

“You didn’t hear? Wow. I can’t believe no one told you!”

“Listen…” Louise began, the words spilling out of her mouth with barely a thought. She was furious; she could not believe anyone would call her house so early in the morning and mock her family with a prank like that. After all they’d been through, she really had no tolerance left in her for such stupidity. “I don’t know who you are, but it is 6:30 in the morning! How dare you call my house and wake up my girls with your sick joke?” Louise waited for a response, but the man said nothing; he was clearly dumbfounded and unprepared for her reaction. Before he could recover, Louise went back on the offensive. “DO NOT call my house again. Do you understand me?”

She slammed down the phone before he could say another word. She closed her eyes, but within seconds, she knew she would not be able to fall asleep again. She was fuming after that phone call and knew there was no way she would calm down enough to get those last thirty minutes of shut-eye before she had to wake up her daughters for school.

What is wrong with people? He knew my name, so he obviously knows about what happened with Pasquale! What a jerk! She stewed on those angry thoughts for several minutes before doubt began to creep in. Wait…why would someone play a sick joke like that? He did say he was a reporter...Did he say Channel 7?

Ring...ring...

“What, you sick fu—”

“Louise? It’s me.”

“Oh Pasquale, I am so sorry!” She took a deep breath before going on. “It’s just that this guy called claiming to be some Channel 7 reporter and—”

“He called you? I just passed a bunch of them backing out of the driveway and told them specifically not to bother my wife!”

“Are you serious, Pasquale?” She could not believe it and wondered if, gasp, a reporter had been telling her the truth. “Is he really…dead?”

“Yeah, Louise. It’s all over the news. Listen, I checked the doors before I left, and they were all locked, but there are a bunch of those media hounds standing in front of our driveway. I told them not to bug you and that we have no comment, so hopefully they’ll leave you alone soon.”

“Well, if they don’t, I’ll just give Cousin Ralph a call and have them taken care of...” she said wryly. “Wait…Pasquale, are you telling me they really got him? The Navy SEALS took him out? He’s really…dead?”

“It looks like it.”

“Really?!” Louise was suddenly terrified. “You have to come home. Come home right now!”

“What? What the hell? Is someone bothering you?”

“What?” She was confused, wondering how Pasquale could possibly be unaware of the imminent danger they were in, the danger he was in. “Pasquale, you have to come home. Don’t you see? They’re going to want to retaliate!”

“Oh. I thought...uh…” It was not something he’d considered. He could understand why his wife would be scared, but he did not feel fear himself. There is no way something like that could happen to the same family a third time... “Nothing is going to happen. It’s gonna be all right, Nunu. As long as those reporters get the hell off of our lawn, things will be okay.”

Louise laughed, in spite of herself.

“That’s what I want to hear—you laughing. Louise, everything is going to be fine. . Listen, Louise, I just got off the highway. I am almost at work, so I have to hang up. If you need anything just call. You hear me?”

“Are you sure you are going to be fine?”

“Positive.”

“Well, just be careful. Promise me you’ll be careful, Pasquale.”

“I promise.”

Louise hung up the phone, but, despite Pasquale’s assurances, she could not help but feel a sense of unease. She mulled those thoughts over for a minute before deciding she would not let them get to her. I gotta snap out of it. Now is not the time for me to be scared. I can’t let Hope or Mia see me scared. Oh thank you, God! They finally got that piece of shit!

She eventually calmed herself down, and after considering keeping them home, decided that she should let the girls go to school. She did allow them to sleep in a little longer than usual, hoping that the reporters would not be lurking around the driveway when they left.

I’ll tell them about this when they get home from school, she thought. I don’t want them thinking about it all day, worrying about their father.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and peeked out from behind the curtains to see if the reporters had stuck around. She could see none, so she decided to enjoy her coffee outside on the front steps of their white colonial home, where so many great memories had been made. She sat and sipped her coffee while taking in the beautiful scene around her.

It has been almost ten years. I can’t believe they got him! They finally got the coward who tried to kill my Pasquale. Oh my God, my amazing husband! Thank you, God, for letting him live to see his children! Today is a day like no other, a victory for all of America. Maybe, finally, there’ll be some closure—an end to what happened to all of us a decade ago. Wow...I have to do something!

As these thoughts raced through Louise’s mind, she began to cry. Even so many years later, she was so thankful that her husband had survived. As she finished her coffee, she made a decision. She knew exactly what to do. It’s not much, but it’s…perfect!

She put her empty cup back inside, then made her way toward the garage. Wow. I need to get rid of some of this junk. Okay, where is it? Oh yeah. I put it in the box and then left it on top of the Christmas decorations. Yes! There it is.

She emerged from the garage with a bundle under her arm and went straight up to the top deck on top of their garage. She felt so high up, like she could see everything down the street from the front of her house, a bird’s-eye view...

~ ♦ ~

Sam Raymond was driving through the streets of River Vale and doing his best to ignore the sound of his girls bickering in the backseat. When he could not hum loud enough to drown out their arguing, he decided to turn on the radio. After what happened last night there must be something interesting on.

He turned the dial and almost immediately found what he wanted to hear: “...and details just continue to pour in as the news hits many Americans who are just now waking up and finding out. You are not dreaming, folks! This is not a bad joke or a hoax. Osama Bin Laden had a bullet put in his brain by the brave heroes that make up Navy SEAL Team 6!”

“Ya hear that, girls?” he said as he looked at them in the rearview mirror.

They were no longer fighting and were instead listening to the radio right along with him.

“Osama Bin Laden is the man who tried to kill Mr. Pasquale. Oh wow. I bet Louise is thrilled! Why don’t we stop over at their house after school?”

A few moments later, they passed Pasquale and Louise’s house.

“Daddy, look! Mrs. Louise is hanging something on the house!”

Sam turned his head and, sure enough, saw Louise, standing high up on her deck, struggling to hang something from it. She wrestled with it for a few seconds, and then he saw a giant American flag drop. It hung gloriously from the wooden deck, really standing out against the white siding. Sam stopped the car in front of the house and honked the horn. “Hey, Louise!”

She waved back at him.

“I guess you heard, huh?”

“I heard this morning, Sam!”

“Me too! I woke up, and it was all over the news. When I saw you were trying to hang that, I just had to stop. What a great tribute!”

“Thank you, Sam! Isn’t this yours?” she asked, pointing to the huge 10’x8’ Stars and Stripes. “I just...I had to do something, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, I definitely get it! But, Louise, there is just one problem.”

“What?”

“You hung it backward!”

“I did?” Louise walked down the steps and into the yard to take a look at Old Glory. “You’re right! I did! Is that a bad thing?”

“Well, it’s sort of known as a sign of disrespect. Tell you what. Let me get the girls off to school, and I’ll come back and help you get that thing straightened out!”

“Really? Thank you, Sam. That would be a great help!”

“No problem. Be back in a few.”

Sam drove on and immediately began forming a plan. He dropped his girls off at school and started dialing his cell phone.

~ ♦ ~

Chris Edelen sat at his kitchen table, sipping his morning coffee and reading The New York Times. The front page read: “BIN LADEN KILLED BY U.S. FORCES IN PAKISTAN, OBAMA SAYS, DECLARING JUSTICE HAS BEEN DONE.” Chris was eagerly reading the story inside, his eyes scanning each line rapidly as he tried to take in the information.

Ring...ring...ring...

“Hello?” Chris answered.

“Hey, Chris.”

“Yeah? What’s up, Sam?”

“What are you doing right now? I assume you’ve heard the news.”

“Yeah. I was just reading about it in The Times.” Chris told him all about the headline and the article.

“My God, man. I can’t believe it!” Sam paused for a moment before going on. “Hey, I just passed the Buzzelli place.”

“Wow. How are they?” Chris asked.

“Well, Louise seems to be great. She was hanging a flag from their balcony.”

“That’s great!”

“It is, but that’s actually why I’m calling. I need your help.”

“What can I do for you?” Chris asked.

“Well, I kind of have this plan…”

Chris could not help but feel excited when Sam filled him in.

“We’re gonna need some rope, a couple ladders, and as many flags as we can manage...”

~ ♦ ~

The sun was just peeking out from behind the trees that lined Rivervale Road. Louise stood, rooted to her spot, on her tiptoes, just barely able to keep herself from sprinting the route she knew he would take home. She could not wait to see him, and neither could the dozens of people waiting with her.

“Mrs. Louise?”

She felt a hand tugging on her jeans and looked down and saw Sam’s little girl gazing up at her. “Hey, Lauren!” Louise ceased watching for just a moment and bent down to talk to her, “What have you got there?”

“Just some flowers,” Lauren said, holding up a bouquet of pretty blossoms. “I picked them for Mr. Pasquale. Do you think he will like them?”

“Like them? Oh, Lauren, he’s going to love them. They are beautiful!” Louise smiled and gave the little girl a hug. Then, Louise stood up and took a deep breath. She looked around her yard, awash in red, white, and blue, and could not help but smile. As she took it all in, she noticed Chris talking to his ten-year-old daughter, Alex.

“I am confused.”

“Are you? About what?”

“Well...” Alex searched for the words to the question she wanted to ask. “I was just wondering, why are we celebrating someone dying?”

“Oh no! We are not doing that,” Chris said, putting his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and looking her right in the eyes.

Louise watched them and it dawned on her how it must have seemed to a young child or someone else who did not know the story of her husband’s survival. It was easy for her to see how it might seem to someone on the outside looking in, to someone who did not understand their story. It might just look a bit odd that someone would celebrate a death—even if that death happened to a terrorist.

“Honey, we are celebrating life!” Chris told her. “We are celebrating Pasquale’s life and his survival. The man who tried to kill him is dead, but Pasquale is still alive!”

“Mommy, look!”

Louise turned to see Mia pointing to the end of the road.

“Daddy is home!” Hope exclaimed, and both girls ran toward the driveway. They could not wait to leap into his arms and give their father a huge hug.

Louise heard Brittany barking as Pasquale pulled into the driveway and watched as the little terrier ran and hopped into the car as soon as Pasquale opened the door. It was only fitting that the first one to greet him when he came home on September 11, 2001, would be the first one to greet him when he came home on this victorious day as well.

Louise wiped a tear from her eye as she made her way toward her husband: a man who had fallen down, had been knocked over time and time again, only to stand back up again; an all-around good guy; a wonderful friend, son, husband, and father...and a survivor in every sense of the word.

~ ♦ ~

I don’t remember it ever taking this long to get home! Pasquale thought as he sat in traffic on his way home from work. He always looked forward to the moment he turned the corner and could see his house. As he neared home, his anticipation grew; his loving wife and his two beautiful daughters awaited him there, and the only thing keeping him from them was distance.

Damn traffic. Today of all days, he thought. He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and noticed how angry he looked.

What do I have to be angry about? How can I let a little traffic jam get me down when I have so much to be thankful for in my life?

It was true, for the last few years had been very good to Pasquale Buzzelli. After watching his daughter fall down over and over again, only to get back up every time, he felt a profound sadness; sadness for the little children who’d lost so much at such a young age. He also felt fear. A deep, dark terror lurked in his what-if thoughts, pondering that little Hope could have (and by all logical thought, should have) been one of those children. It horrified Pasquale to think he was so close to losing the chance to watch Hope grow up.

He dwelled on those thoughts for a while. He thought of Hope growing up and experiencing the highs and lows of life without her father there to guide her and console her when she came to the inevitable valleys that every human experiences. He thought about how he would have never had the chance to celebrate the good times with her, big and small: watching her play dolls with her friends; seeing her fall off her bike and scrape her knee, only to get back up and pedal faster; teaching her to drive; tolerating her first crush and helping her through when that first crush would break her heart; seeing her turn her tassel at her high school graduation; driving her to her first college dorm room, with all of her things loaded in the car; walking her down the aisle on her wedding day; the look on her face when she announces that her parents are going to become grandparents; kissing his grandkids and smelling their hair and teaching them how to ride a bike. Pasquale Buzzelli was within milliseconds, inches of missing all of that, and it was an absolute miracle that he had been and would be there to experience it all.

It was then that it clicked for Pasquale. He was overcome with grief at even the thought of missing even a second of his daughter’s life, yet there he was, living life in a haze of sadness and regret. He vowed on that day that he would no longer live in the shadow of those crumbling Towers. He would live and live well, a tribute to those who hadn’t been given that chance.

The road to recovery was not an easy one. It was long and filled with many ups and downs. The more time he spent not talking about 9/11, the less he was asked to do so. It was a tremendous relief for him to be able to go back to normal life, to not have everyone who met him immediately label him a “survivor,” “a miracle,” or “the luckiest man alive.” As time went on, he was able to get back to being the man he had always wanted to be, the man his father had taught him to be.

As time went by and Pasquale realized that he was actually able to just live a normal, happy life, as he realized he could have some semblance of control over his life, he and Louise decided they wanted to have another baby. They went through the process of in vitro fertilization for a second time, and it worked once again. On May 21, 2005, Louise gave birth to their second daughter, Mia Elizabeth Buzzelli.

As amazing as it was being a father for the first time, Pasquale enjoyed it even more the second time around. Because of his battle with PTSD, he had not been the father he’d wanted to be to Hope when she was very little, but thanks to the years of therapy and the continuous support of his family, he had been able to overcome—or at least understand and deal with—the post-traumatic stress and the survivor’s guilt that had been making his life almost unbearable for so long. He was finally well enough again and able to enjoy just being a father without all of the outside forces stealing his mind away from the things that mattered most—his wife and kids.

Hope had been a very quiet as a baby who rarely cried; Mia was the opposite. She cried often as a baby, but rather than seeing it as an annoyance, Pasquale used it as an opportunity to bond with his baby girl. He held her in his arms every night, until her cries grew to soft whimpers, and then she quieted down and got comfortable, snuggling in her daddy’s strong and loving arms.

As Mia grew a little older, Louise and Pasquale took turns putting her to bed. Pasquale relished the nights when it was his turn. He sat with her in his arms in the green gliding chair in her room. She asked him to read her the same book every night, Goodnight Moon, and rock her to sleep. Each and every time he read it to her, he let her find the little mouse in the picture, and every time she pointed her little finger at that little mouse, Pasquale remembered how blessed he was to have the opportunity to read a bedtime story to his daughter.

Once Mia finally did fall asleep, Pasquale would get up quietly and place her in her bed. She would wake up every time, but he always said, “Goodnight, Mia. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” When he said those words, his little one would blow him kisses, insisting that he catch every one of them and put them on his cheek, then blow his own back to her; she would catch his as well and put them on her own little cheek for safekeeping. Then, Daddy would have to back slowly out of her room. That became their ritual, and Pasquale cherished it every night; no matter how many hundreds of kisses they exchanged through the air, it never grew old for the man who knew what it meant to really appreciate his chance to be a father.

Even though things were much better for Pasquale and Louise, Pasquale was not able to find the tools to make a full recovery until the summer of 2006, when he had the opportunity to work with his own father again, much like he had done as a teen so many years before. Pasquale and Louise decided to buy a beach house, a true fixer-upper that would require full renovation. They wanted to continue to make special family memories with their children and thought the beach would be the perfect place to do it. Pasquale wanted to make every repair on the house himself, and he asked his father to help him.

Much like everything worth having in life, that beach house needed a lot of hard work before it would be in livable condition. Pasquale and Ugo spent countless hours putting in a new kitchen, refurbishing the living room, fixing the roof, painting, and various other odd jobs to get the house ready to be the Buzzellis’ home away from home. As they worked, Pasquale thought back on his summers as a young man, working construction with his father. It reminded him of how special Ugo was to him.

Ugo had always been there to help him and show him how to do whatever needed to be done. Ugo had taught Pasquale how to work hard, because that is what men do. Ugo knew that instilling that work ethic in Pasquale would set him up to be a success in whatever field he chose. Pasquale thought about how Ugo was always there to guide him, no matter what the circumstance. It was then that Pasquale realized just what he needed to be for his own children.

He realized that he owed it to his daughters, but also to himself, to overcome the issues that were plaguing him. How can I guide them in their lives when I don’t even have my own shit together? he thought. How can I teach them to be happy people if I am freaking miserable most of the time? Working with Ugo was the perfect salve for the wounds Pasquale had been nursing for so long, and, thanks to his father, he figured out that he could be the father he knew his kids deserved.

The summer of 2006 was not all work for Pasquale though. He spent as much time as he could with Louise, Hope, and Mia, cherishing every moment. He did all of the things a good father does, even if it meant being uncomfortable himself.

Near the beach house was an amusement park called Fantasy Island. It was full of all of the normal amusement park attractions; cotton candy, a Ferris Wheel, various thrill rides, and plenty of things for children to do. Louise and Pasquale took their daughters to Fantasy Island on their visit to the beach house. While there, Mia spotted something that made her eyes light up; the bumblebee ride. The ride was a lot like a carousel, except it went up in the air and then down to the ground as the riders went around the circle.

Mia was only eighteen months old, but she knew what she wanted. She had to get on one of those bumblebees! Pasquale decided that if it was what his daughter wanted, he would endure the indignity of squeezing his six-two frame into one of those little yellow and black carts with the silly faces painted on the front. So, with Mia in his arms and his knees poking into his chest, Pasquale and Mia flew with the bumblebees.

God, I look ridiculous, but if it makes her happy...he thought as he held his little girl, all dressed in pink, right up to the bow on her head. As Pasquale held her in his arms, he knew she was having the time of her life, laughing and giggling and positively bursting with joy. He knew then that he would suffer indignities a thousand times worse if it meant he could see her smiling like she was smiling in that moment.

As Pasquale remembered all of this, the traffic began to move. Finally! he thought. I am almost home!

As he drove the rest of the way (it took every ounce of resolve that he had not to push the pedal to the floor and speed the entire way), he continued to reflect on the many wonderful memories he’d already made with his children. Memories of actually getting to teach Hope to ride a bike, to see her win her first ice skate competition, of trips to the Jersey Shore, the trip he and Louise had taken to Martha’s Vineyard with Hope when she was just a baby, and even smaller memories that may not have meant much to the outside world; they all meant the world to him. There were memories of kissing his kids goodnight; memories of snow days and pancakes and dress-up and dressing up the dog and eventually the girls would play dress up with him too. Tea parties were a big thing in the Buzzelli household, and both of his daughters loved The Phantom of the Opera, the very opera he’d used to ask their mother to marry him so many years ago. There were trips to the zoo, and there were so many fond memories of sitting down at the dinner table with his wife, his parents, and his daughters, three generations of Buzzellis, all around one table. None of that would not have been possible, if not for an inexplicable miracle. He thought about how close he had come to missing all of that, of missing everything.

He thought about how Louise had always said that Mia was the spitting image of him, how she was already an artist who loved painting and sculpting little animals in great detail out of clay. He thought about how even now, at only six years old, she was a tremendous sketcher. She also loved to swim, and Pasquale remembered teaching her how; she just dove right in. Mia would stand on the side of the pool and call for Pasquale to catch her when she jumped, and she’d squeal with delight when her father dunked her into the water. He would hold her as she swam back to the edge, just so she could climb out and do it all over again. He loved that she never wanted him to let her go; if he tried, she would get very upset.

That is what a father does, I guess. You teach them and are there for them. You never want to let them go, but you have to so they can learn. Luckily, I have a long way to go before I have to think about letting go. God, I am so lucky to be here with them. They are so special and...What in the world?!

As he pulled onto, his street his jaw dropped. He could see his house, but it had been…transformed. All over the yard, the gutters, the deck, and even the trees, there were American flags. There were dozens of flags, from little ones stuck in the dirt to giant ones hung between the trees. There was red, white, and blue everywhere. He could not believe what he was seeing, but even more touching than the flags were the people who’d taken the time to adorn his house and yard with them. On his front lawn stood a large group of people: news reporters, neighbors, friends, and family, all gathered there, just waiting for him. As his car approached, they began to cheer and clap, and his eyes began to fill up with tears.

He pulled into the driveway and quickly tried to wipe his eyes. Pasquale saw Hope and Mia running toward the car, but they were not alone. It seemed every child who lived in the neighborhood was running toward his car along with them. When he opened the door, Brittany jumped right into his lap and started licking his face. It was as if she knew, as if she understood just how significant his return home was, especially on that day.

“Daddy we missed you!” Hope exclaimed.

“Oh, I missed you too…so much!” Pasquale said as he pulled Hope and Mia into a big bear hug. After he hugged them, he stepped out of the car and saw his wife standing in front of him with tears in her eyes.

“We couldn’t wait for you to get home! I have been standing here just waiting to see your car,” Louise said.

“I know. I could not wait to get home either,” he said as he pulled her into an embrace. He held her close and just tried to cherish the moment.

“Daddy, do you see what everyone did?” Mia asked him.

“Yes! You guys did all of this…for me?” he asked, looking around at everyone in standing and watching him.

“Yes. Everyone here did this!” Louise said. “Sam had the idea, and he and Chris got everyone together. Can you believe it, P.?”

“You guys,” he said, trying to look every one of them in the eyes at once. “I-I can’t even think of what to say...but thank you...”

As he stood, trying to find the words, Lauren handed him the bouquet of pink flowers, “Here. These are for you, Mr. Pasquale,” she said before turning and running away.

He stared at the flowers in his hand, and then looked around and tried to take it all in. He thought about the man who had murdered his friends and family, the man who had tried to murder him; that man was finally dead. It did not bring complete closure, but it definitely helped to know that he had finally paid for his crimes. He thought about the hatred he felt for those terrorists who had tried to destroy everything he held dear: his home, his country, and his way of life.

They tried to take away the things that make this country so great, he thought. They wanted to destroy our spirit, to take away our honor. They disrespected us and tried to take away our right to choose and control our destiny in this great country. But they can’t take that away from us. I could not control what happened to me, but I can control how I live my life going forward. I can control how I lead my life. I can control what kind of father I am, what kind of husband I am. I can be the father, the son, the husband my family deserves. And I can live a life where I help my fellow man and respect how they wish to live their lives. I can live a life that honors my family, and in doing so, honors the memory of the friends I have lost, just as I was taught to do by my father...

FROM DADDY’S LITTLE GIRLS

“I love my mom and my little sister Mia, but I feel especially glad to have my dad here with me. I wasn’t born yet, but I know my dad was working in the Twin Towers on September 11. He was trying to get out down the stairs when the building crashed down, and he fell twenty-two floors. Firefighters found him and got him home to my mom so he could be there when I was born two months later. He's the best dad! When my mom's out of town, he gives us pancakes and ice cream for breakfast! I don't know what it would be like not having him here, but I know a lot of kids weren’t as lucky.

We haven’t learned about 9/11 in school, so I shared my dad’s story with my classmates last January to help them understand what happened. We should all remember the people who suffered. If I could change the world, I'd take everybody who does bad things to others and try to make them understand that they should stop, because the world should only have peace.” [5]

~ Hope Buzzelli, Age 10

“I love my dad because he takes me fishing and crabbing. He makes me pizza on the grill and my favorite pancakes. I love visiting my dad at his job because I like seeing him, and I miss him when he is at work.”

~ Mia Buzzelli, Age 6

[1]American Rhetoric, “George W. Bush: Bullhorn Address to the Ground Zero Workers.” (September 14, 2001) http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/gwbush911groundzerobullhorn.htm

[2]The Jersey Journal, “Father Michael Guglielmelli to Retire from St. Francis Church.” (June 26, 2012) http://photos.nj.com/jersey-journal/2012/06/father_michael_guglielmelli_to_7.html

[3]St. Francis Hoboken, The Little Church with a Big Heart, “History of the Church.” http://www.stfrancishoboken.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=47&Itemid=53

[4] McPhee, Michelle, New York Daily News, “From Near-Death to New Hope: Survivor Rejoices in Baby Hope.” http://articles.nydailynews.com/2001-11-30/news/18354230_1_rescued-world-trade-center-port-authority

[5]Redbook, “The Children of 9/11: A Legacy of Hope.” http://www.redbookmag.com/health-wellness/advice/september-11-children-3